


Teach Me, Life; Guide Me, Love

by Kira OHara (KiraOHara)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: (not from H or D!), 69 (Sex Position), Anal Sex, Angst, Cluelessness, Community: hd_smoochfest, Dealing With Guilt, Denial, Divorce, Draco Malfoy Redemption, Draco-centric, Fatherhood, Fluff, Growing Up, HD Smoochfest, Infidelity, M/M, Masturbation, Recovery, Sappiness, Scar!kink, Sexuality Acceptance, Sexuality Crisis, Slash, Spans a Lifetime, learning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-08
Updated: 2011-06-11
Packaged: 2017-10-21 08:44:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 79,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/223251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KiraOHara/pseuds/Kira%20OHara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Revelations both painful and joyous set the markers in the path of every life.  Thankfully, Draco has spectacular company for the journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Magic

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kayoko](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Kayoko).



> **Title:** Teach Me, Life; Guide Me, Love  
>  **Author:** Kira O’Hara  
>  **Pairings:** Draco/Harry,  Astoria/Draco, Neville/Pansy; _mentions of:_ Hermione/Ron, Ginny/Harry, Greg/Millicent, teeeeeeeensy Draco/Pansy moment *giggle*  
>  **Word Count:** A bajillion. Seriously: 79,417. 8|  
>  **Rating:** NC-17  
>  **Warnings:** Largely Draco-centric; sappiness; angst; denial; cluelessness; infidelity (not by H or D, don’t worry!); swearing; child trauma; not-good-people!Astoria &Ginny some Weasley- and H-bashing from D early on; mature sexual content of the solo and slashy kind; mentions of het. It might make you cry at one point, but I promise it all works out!  
> Epilogue Compliant? Partly. The marriages and the kids happen, but the train scene won’t. I also twisted a few bits and pieces from the whole series here and there (mostly by accident).  
>  **Summary:** Revelations both painful and joyous set the markers in the path of every life. Thankfully, Draco has spectacular company for the journey.  
>  **Betas:** The amazing and super-wonderful [Tyoko](http://tyoko.livejournal.com/), who was immeasurably helpful and has me wanting to figure out how to ship chocolates internationally. Also [Casey](http://papercollage.livejournal.com/), who was kind enough to help with the first third of this before life ate her. ♥  
>  **Author's Notes:** I sincerely apologize for letting this monster get away from me! It seemed like such a cute prompt and I fell in love with it, and then it just exploded into a huge and detailed story. Honestly, it was _supposed_ to be short and cute…and then my muse laughed at me, I swear. It’s been a challenge, to say the least, and I hope you love it as much as I do, darling mystery prompter! ♥♥♥  (For extra giggles: Imagine Eshe’s voice as Fran’s from FFXII and Penha’s voice to be like a happy Djimon Hounsou. *g*)
> 
>  **Gift Fic For:** [Kayoko](http://kayoko.livejournal.com/)  
>  **Written For:** [HD Smoochfest](http://hd_smoochfest.livejournal.com/) 2011  
>  **Prompt:** Prompt #23:  
>  _Time Period:_ Post-Hogwarts  
>  _Place:_ Malfoy Manor  
>  _Object/Word Prompts:_ talking book, dragons, garden gnomes  
>  _Action:_ The talking book refuses to be placed inside a rucksack. It demands to be carried so it isn't tousled.  
>  First Time Scenario: Lessons Learned
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoat Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

_“Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors, and the most patient of teachers.” – Charles W. Eliot_

** Part One: **

 

At four, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Magic.

Not to say that he hadn’t been surrounded by such from the moment of his conception, but until then it had always been such a normative notion that he had never given it much thought.  He knew portraits talked, stairwells moved, and House Elves could always pop in on you when you were being naughty.  He knew he was a wizard and one day he would swoosh a wand and float things and set them on fire like Mum and Da could.  He knew one day really, really far away when he was _eleven_ he’d go off to a school that would teach him how to do that.  Until then, what thought should he have given to magic?

But, at this moment, he gave it a thought – and that thought was that magic was a pain in the bum.

Crossing his arms tighter, he fought to rein in his pout and use the scowl he often saw his father use.  It seemed to get _him_ what he wanted, so there was no reason it shouldn’t work for Draco.  He managed to hold that pose for all of twelve seconds before he felt the need to shuffle again.  The wooden chair he was stuck in was rather uncomfortable and he would like very much to be away from it, but there was the small matter of the sensing spell his mother had used to make sure he stayed seated.

Huffing an exaggerated sigh, he blew at the blond fringe just barely falling into his eyes.  Mum had removed the itchy stuff that made it stay back when she had sat him in time out, thankfully, but now it kept falling in his face.  Scooting to the edge of the chair, he peeked over and swung his little feet.  He was so very bored, and Mum had told the House Elves that they weren’t allowed to bring him anything.  He was supposed to be ‘thinking about what he had done,’ but he wasn’t sure why it had been bad anyway.  Other than that it was _gross_ – but _still_.

His brows knit together as he tried to think of a solution to his horrendous problem: time out for a _whole hour_.  “Urgh!” he scoffed, wrinkling his nose.  But he was a Malfoy, and Malfoys are smart and cunning (Da taught him that one) and they always get what they want, so he should too.  He took a moment to glower at the clock – certain that it wasn’t working right because he had _definitely_ been there for longer than three minutes – and then began to slowly turn the cogs in his head around his issue.

Two minutes, a mental light bulb, and an obedient House Elf later, he was happily roaming the halls once again.  He steered clear of the party still going on downstairs so as to not get caught, instead veering off toward his favorite place in the manor: Da’s Library.  He’d have to be careful, though; he was certain the clock in there didn’t work right either because it always went too fast.

Draco crept quietly down the hallways, trying to muffle his footsteps on the hardwood floors.  He stopped and held his breath at every corner, listening carefully for anyone who might notice him.  Peeking around the library’s massive door, he grinned to himself in triumph at finding it empty.  He wasn’t really supposed to be in there, even when he _wasn’t_ supposed to be in time out.  Wandering along one of the walls with his head tipped back in wonder, he pondered which book he could pilfer without Da realizing it.

“Are you lost?” a voice called from his right, and he whirled toward it.  Wide-eyed and with held breath, he scanned the space it had appeared to come from.  It had been female and light and pretty, with a weird accent he couldn’t place.

But no one was there.

Frowning, he cautiously made his way over to where the voice had come from, looking around for someone who might spring out of hiding.  He heard a small thump and a shuffle of paper and whirled on it again – but again, no one was there, just the shelves full of books.  Two of the books seemed to be set forward from the others, and that was enough to pique his curiosity more than the invisible woman had.

He reached out and pulled them from the shelf, settling back on the floor.  They were covered in symbols he couldn’t read, which was weird because he could speak English and French and Mum had taught him the Greek symbols last month…mostly.  The symbols were pressed and carved and burned in, overlapping each other, some of them looking as if they had naught to do with any of the other sets.  The book to his left was a faded and dark grey leathery thing, with just barely discernible hints of blues and greens.  The one to his right was a more brownish-looking leather, with faint reds and yellows marking it here and there.  Draco curiously traced his fingers over the inconsistent smudges of color.  The books fluttered for a bit as he manhandled them, but he paid it no extra mind.  When he reached for the covers to pry them open, he felt a sharp pain as soon as his little fingers touched the pages.

“Ouch!” he cried, tears springing to his eyes as he yanked his hands away from the apparently _evil_ , _biting_ books.  He tried to glare at them imperiously, but would admit that it was possibly ruined by his pathetic little sniffle.  Cradling his poor, abused hands, he peeked down at the little papercuts that graced several of his fingers.  He only just managed to refrain from sticking them in his mouth, having been lectured before that doing such after touching Da’s books could be dangerous.

His attention was drawn back to the books as they seemed to ruffle on their own, turning so that they were upright with their spines facing him.  He cocked his head to the side for a moment, curiosity rising to the fore again.  He’d seen Da make pages turn without touching them, so maybe some books could move on their own too?  They had turned the bitey-sides away from him, so they couldn’t hurt him now, right?

“Oh, no need to cry, little one.  It was only a tiny prick,” the book on the left said in the invisible woman’s voice, the bands of the spine bending to move as a mouth.  _…Oh_ , he thought, comprehension dawning.  She was clearly amused, and that made him scowl again.

“You’re not very nice books,” he informed them, giving a little sniff that he hoped passed more for derision than for a sniffle.

“Of course we are, child.  Eshe just has a very odd sense of humor,” the book on the right informed him cheerily.  That one’s voice was masculine, but full of a gentle warmth that reminded him of Mum’s bedtime stories.  Even so, that did not make him a _nice_ book.

“You _bit_ me,” he reminded them, holding out his _horribly damaged_ fingers as proof.  He added in a scowl (that was most certainly _not_ a pout) for good measure.

“I suppose we did prick you a little, yes, but it was necessary for the magic to work,” replied the brown book, still gentle.  Grey eyes flicked warily to the grey book – Eshe? – when he was almost certain he heard her mutter, “Baby.”

He dithered for a moment, caught between ire and intrigue, and then he gave in.  “…What magic?”

“The magic that lets us talk, of course!  We know you, now, Draco,” was the jubilant answer.

Draco’s eyes grew round, his little mouth forming an ‘o’ of wonder.  “ _How do you know my name_?!” he whispered out, his voice barely above a hiss.

“Simple: the magic told us.  We know a lot more about you too, but not specific things like that.  We know that you have three people that you love very, very much, for instance; however, we don’t know _who_.  Though…it feels like perhaps two are your parents?”

Draco beamed.  “Yes!  And Uncle Sev.  He’s mean sometimes but I like him anyway.  He’s scary, but he can be funny too!”  He scooted closer to the brown book, liking him more now.

“We also know that you have apparently done something naughty, but we don’t know what,” Eshe blithely chimed in.  Draco turned several shades of red at being caught out…and reminded.

Draco hesitated for a moment.  “Oh.  Yeah.  Mum put me in time out and even put a sensing spell to make sure I kept sitting there,” he mumbled, picking at a small crease in his trousers.

“And yet you are here?”  He was certain that if Eshe had eyes, she would be raising an eyebrow.

He contemplated the books skeptically.  “You promise you won’t tell?”

“We can’t talk to anyone except you.  The magic binds us to that because we will come to know many of your secrets,” was Eshe’s even reply.  He could tell them all his secrets and they couldn’t tell anyone else?  Draco rather liked the sound of that.

He looked up and gave a sly little smile.  “I got Slinky, one of our House Elves, to sit down with me and then I hopped off.  I told him that if he moved that he would set off the spell and the Mistress – my mum – would be very mad.  I don’t think he realized that she’d be mad at _me_.”  He grinned mischievously, eyes twinkling at his audience and daring them to tell him how amazing he was.

They didn’t disappoint, either…sort of.  “That was very clever of you, though not very wise.  Why did you think of _that_ solution?”

He puffed up as regally as a four-year-old is able.  “Because I’m a Malfoy, and Malfoys can do _anything_.”  As an afterthought, he added, “And I was bored.”

“I am certain even Malfoys have their limitations, young one.  Magic is the only thing that can do anything,” Eshe added, quietly but sternly.  Draco pouted at her, because she _clearly_ didn’t see the point.

“Shouldn’t you be thinking about why you were put in time out in the first place?” ventured the brown book, and Draco frowned.

“I know _why_ I got put there, but it wasn’t _bad_!  Mum and Da do it all the time!” he protested grumpily.  Then, both out of curiosity and a will to divert the attention away from himself, he blurted out, “What’s _your_ name?”  He gave a small nod toward the brown book, then wondered if books without eyes could see it.

The book chuckled, the pages behind it fluttering in its mirth.  “I am called Penha, child,” he responded, then foiled Draco’s plan and brought the attention back on him.  “What is it you did?  Perhaps we can help you understand why you were punished?”

Sighing gustily, Draco related his story.  “I kissed Pansy Parkinson.  It was gross, but she’s my friend and they like sticking us together and I heard Mum once say that we might be married some day and Mum and Da are married and they kiss lots.”  He paused, then added, “It’s gross when they do it too, but I thought if I was supposed to be married then I was supposed to kiss her.”  He huffed a little sigh, still not certain what was wrong.  Then something dawned on him: “Was I supposed to wait until I’m actually married?”

He glared when the books laughed at him.  Well, Eshe laughed; Penha just kind of chuckled, so it wasn’t so bad.  “No, no, child.  I think it is more the intent of the kiss.”  Draco’s confused silence seemed enough to spur the book further.  “When you kiss somebody, it should be because you like them in some manner.  Some people are stricter about kisses than others, but most people agree that you shouldn’t kiss someone if you don’t mean it.”

“But I like Pansy.”

“Ah, but there are different kinds of like and love.  Did you kiss her on the mouth?”  Draco nodded.  “Would you like me to explain why your mother was displeased?”  Draco nodded furiously, not even minding when he was treated to another round of chuckling.  He liked knowing things, and Penha was just going to _tell_ him!

For then next half an hour, Penha laid the basic groundwork of different kinds of like and love, as well as the different kinds of kisses that might be appropriate for each.  Eshe piped in occasionally, but most of what she said made Draco want to stick his tongue out at her.  Draco was happy to say that he now understood just why his mother had been angry, and he knew what to say to her when she came to collect him.  …Speaking of…

He’d been enjoying their discussion so much that he had almost forgotten that he needed to get back to his chair.  A glance up at the mantle showed that the evil clock was at it again – he was sure it hadn’t really been _that_ long!  He only had six minutes until his mother would be back, and the room wasn’t all that close.  Especially if he had to watch out for guests.

Having been raised to be polite, he apologized as he scooped up the two books mid-sentence and trotted off toward his rooms.  He had a feeling that he shouldn’t leave Eshe behind, even if he didn’t like her as much as Penha.  He carefully stowed them on his bed, then said he’d be back later and slipped out.

He managed to make it back to his chair with one minute to spare and patted himself on the back for that.  He climbed up and shooed Slinky away, smiling happily.  He had new friends and they would tell him all kinds of stuff and he could tell them everything.  And they’d helped him already!  He quickly doused his smile and tried to look as guilty as possible as soon as he heard his mother step into the room.  When she asked him if he’d thought about what he’d done, he was able to nod truthfully and apologize for his mistake.  The small smile and kiss on the forehead let him know she was pleased, and then he was released to go to his room since all the attendees his age had gone home already.  Draco skipped off to his room as fast as he could without running and looking suspicious, then dove onto his bed to greet his new friends.

He talked with them a bit more about their previous conversation, but quickly grew bored of gross stuff like kisses and lovey-dovey stuff.  He wanted to know other stuff too.

“…Eshe?  In the library, you said that magic could do anything.”  He paused, thinking.  “Anything at all?”

“Magic, yes, can do anything – _if_ you have what it takes.”

“What it takes?”

“Yes.  You see, the magic one can cast is determined by the life energy one possesses – or that one can summon from around them.”  Draco nodded, barely catching the meaning of the bigger words.  “One’s ability to shape the magic is dependent on one’s strength of will.  And the basis of a strong will is the strength of emotion poured into it.”

“So…I’m confused.”  He heard Eshe sigh quietly, and was almost certain that one of Penha’s covers flapped out to nudge her.  “You said you need life energy to make magic, but then you said that you need a will to make magic.  And you need emotions to make wills?”  _And what’s a will, anyway?_ he pondered silently.

Eshe seemed to consider, then rephrased it more simply.  “Life energy is what powers your magic; willpower is what makes it do what you want.  Willpower is how much effort you put into making something happen.  If you have the energy but not the will, then there will be magic but it won’t _do_ anything – or it might do the _wrong_ thing.  If you have the will but not the energy, then nothing will happen – you can _plan_ to build a castle, but without the stone you can’t actually _build_ it.”

Draco nodded, understanding it now.  “But…what about emotions?  How do they…?”  He waved his hand, trying to indicate how one would make willpower.

Penha stepped in this time.  “You see, there are two forces that make willpower, just like there are two to make magic happen.  The main force is emotion, the secondary force is logic.  Logic is knowing what you want to happen, and it helps give shape to your willpower, as well as sets limits on how much willpower you are willing to commit.”  He spoke slowly, giving Draco time to absorb the details.  Da had explained logic to him before, and gave him a bunch of fun puzzles that he called ‘logic puzzles’ to go along with the lesson.  “Emotions are what give it the power to do anything.

“Some emotions are naturally more powerful than others, but what is most important is how powerfully you feel them,” Penha explained.  “If you’re _very_ angry, it can outweigh even some of your more powerful emotions if you don’t feel them as strongly.  Anger isn’t a good emotion to use, though, as it often doesn’t like to be paired with logic.  Fear, also, is a bad one for that same reason.  Fear, however, is the most basic of emotions, and the second most powerful, so a lot of people have tried to use it before.”

“But what’s the most powerful one?” Draco said through a yawn.  It was late, but he was still so curious.

“That’s easy, child.  The most powerful of all emotions is love.  Magics built with the willpower of other emotions will always and certainly – eventually – fail.  But those built with love?  Those are the magics that can last forever.”  The reverent tone in Penha’s voice made Draco smile sleepily.

“So…if I have lots of power and want to make something happen, I could, though?”

Eshe hesitated.  “Yes, you could.  However, there are some things that should never be done, even if you _could_ do them.”

“Okay,” he said simply, believing he understood.  He was halfway to sleep already, struggling to stay awake long enough to understand more.  “What shouldn’t be done?” he managed to slur out quietly as his eyes fell shut.

He heard a quiet chuckle, and then something soft brushed his forehead.  “Never you mind that, little one.  We will speak more in the morning.  Sleep now.”  And as he did, the one thought passing through his mind was that magic was amazing.


	2. Compromise

**  
Part Two:   
**

 

At eight, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Compromise.

It was a wonderful Spring morning, and Draco could hardly contain his excitement. It was warm and sunny and dry, and he couldn’t wait to get outside and down to the lake. Gathering up the various odds and ends of art supplies, he hurriedly tossed them into a rucksack to take with him.

The only things left to pack up to take with him were his book-friends. The only problem with this was that they refused to be packed.

“No.”

Draco let out a small growl of frustration, then attempted to shove the book in his bag again. “You need to go in the bag!”

Pages fluttered and Penha’s covers spread as he made it impossible to fit him into the mouth of the rucksack. “I patently refuse!”

“Why?! I need to carry you down there, and it’s a long way! You’re heavy!” he pouted.

“Then we can take breaks to rest your arms. I will not be shoved into that sack and tousled all about!” came the heated retort.

Eshe was laid off to the side, laughing quietly as the two struggled. She had also refused, but Draco had thought dealing with Penha first would be easier. At least Penha didn’t snap shut on his fingers or give him papercuts. He wasn’t still certain if it was _easier_ , but it certainly hadn’t turned out to be _easy_.

“I want to go to the lake!” he whined, flopping back to sulk at the stubborn books.

“That’s lovely. And we can go. You’re just not shoving us in that bag.”

After another ten minutes of bickering, Draco relented. It was far too beautiful outside to waste any more time inside. Hefting the heavy books, he set out at a decent pace to his favorite spot. He got about halfway there before he had to readjust his arms for fear they’d fall off. The air was fresh and tinted just slightly with the lingering scent of rain, and the sun was warm on his face. It would have been a perfect stroll if he could have just carried the books in his bag instead.

As he worked to reposition the large books, he was oblivious to the plotting going on a scant few feet away. Stepping along, his foot slid into a hole caused by that bit of mischief and the books went flying from his arms. A handful of garden gnomes gave themselves away with a chorus of delighted squeaks as he went down. As he fought to right himself, he saw the blasted creatures running off with their captured treasures, hoping for a good chase.

Draco snarled in outrage, then launched himself after the stupid potatoes-with-legs. Jumping in ecstatic fright, they tittered and raced faster ahead of him. The chase led them through flowerbeds, under bramble bushes, around trees, and across swathes of bright green grass that Draco would slip on every time the gnomes changed direction.

Finally, he managed to pounce on the dimwitted group of creatures and wrestle his books back away from them. Lashing out and kicking, he managed to scatter those who tried to foil him. When they had all taken off again, he groaned and flopped back with the books clutched tightly to his chest. His ankle hurt from where he’d twisted it in the hole, he had scratches from the bushes, he had bruises from running into a few trees, and his bag full of art supplies was digging into his back where he laid on it.

He didn’t care.

He hugged the books tighter, bending his head to rest against them, then let out a little sob. “That can’t _ever_ happen again. I won’t lose you.” He let the tears prick at his eyes as the blind panic he’d felt faded, holding his two dearest friends tightly.

Books or not, these two knew the secrets of his soul and the content of his dreams. They were better teachers than most of his tutors. Most importantly, they were his friends, and he didn’t know what he’d do without them to talk to. “Next time, you’re just going in the bloody bag, okay?” he said between harsh sniffs.

Eventually he picked himself up and dusted them off. The trudge to the lake was a quiet one, the books silently accepting his demand. Once they were there and Draco could relax, they slowly began to chatter again, trading questions with the boy and telling him their own secrets.

.o0O0o.

A week and a half later, the rains had stopped again and it was dry enough to go out and play in the grass. Draco approached the books carefully, rocking on his heels and holding a large package wrapped in brown paper behind his back.

“I want to go down to the lake again,” he stated, waiting for their reaction. He was rather certain he now knew what it looked like for a book to cringe. “I have something for you, though.”

He’d spent a lot of time thinking while they were cooped up inside due to the rains. He knew that _he_ surely didn’t like being jostled, and it was indeed annoying when pages got bent and covers got scratched when he put other books in his bags. And these two were always listening to his problems and worries, but so rarely would they ever demand anything in return. It had hit him a couple days prior, and he had been able to make a request to the House Elves to acquire him a particular object. Thankfully, it had arrived that morning.

Both books perked up as he set the package down and began to unwrap it. Inside was a beautiful wooden case. There were dragons etched along the cover and sides, and it had a lovely dark stain on the wood. The fastenings were a dark metal that accented the wood nicely. When he lifted the lid, the inside of the box was lined with a dark red velvet, gorgeous and unbelievably soft to the touch. The best feature, though, was that it was just large enough to comfortably fit his two books.

Draco smiled, reaching out for one and then the other of his friends. “You don’t have to get all tousled now,” he explained. He could feel them vibrating happily as he gingerly placed them in the case and closed it. He carefully arranged the case in his bag, taking more care with the other things he added to it as well now. Sure, the brushes and bottles of ink and pigment might not be as magical as the books, but he figured that perhaps he should take better care of his other possessions as well.

As he quickly made his way down to the lake, there was a spring in his step and a smile on his face. Of course, he also made sure to not step in any more gnome-holes, but he liked the idea that even if he did, his friends were safe – and, more importantly, happy.


	3. Betrayal and Guilt

** Part Three: **

At ten, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Betrayal and Guilt.

It was breaktime at the posh primary school he had begun to attend the year before when his mother decided he needed more socialization. Children had broken off into groups of activities and games, and squeals of laughter could be heard all across the garden enclosure. Where Draco was standing, however, there was no laughter.

Upper lip curled into a sneer he hoped would rival his father’s, he looked down at a sniveling boy. Neville – no, _Longbottom_ , he reminded himself – hadn’t taken it well when Draco had told him why they couldn’t be friends anymore. When Greg and Vince had come up to watch from behind him, Draco had made a show of shoving the gentle boy to the ground to emphasize his point.

“But…but _why_?” Neville – _Longbottom_ – sniffled out, looking up at Draco in confusion.

“I told you why, you lackwit. You and all those tossers in your family are blood traitors! Father told me so,” he said with a haughty sniff. He’d begun calling his da ‘Father’ when he turned nine and was told it sounded more refined.

“What? We are not! Draco, what does that even matter? Do you even know what that means?” Longbottom pleaded, not even bothering to get up.

“Of course I do!” Draco lied. He wasn’t entirely certain, really. He knew it had something to do with purebloods and non-purebloods, but he wasn’t really sure beyond that. “It means you would betray your own people, and that I can’t stand you. You are as worthless as dirt to me. No, more so! Dirt can at least be useful!” he seethed at the other boy, covering his uncertainty with insults. At least no one with half a brain was nearby to hear how lame they had come out.

A small part of him felt terrible. He _liked_ Neville. The other boy always had a smile for him and was never tetchy like Pansy or Blaise could be. He was a great deal smarter than Greg or Vince would ever aspire to be, and he was hands-down better company that that berk Theo. He didn’t really _want_ to hurt him, but Father had said that they couldn’t be friends and the idiot just wouldn’t accept it. Merlin, it was like he was almost going to be a Gryffindor instead of the Hufflepuff Draco was certain he would be!

Draco looked down at Longbottom and raised an eyebrow when he received no further response. The sight nearly made him flinch; it was only years of propriety training that ensured he didn’t.

The boy was curled in on himself as if Draco had punched him in the gut instead of shoving him to the ground, and tears were pouring out of his eyes. He hiccupped and snuffled and wiped at his nose with his wrist. The most striking thing, though, was the look in the soft brown eyes angled up at him. That look alone nearly crumbled his resolve as it tore at his heart.

Then, his father’s words came back to him, and he knew he had to hold firm. He had to keep up the Malfoy honor, and if that meant striking down a traitor, then let it be so.

“Don’t talk to me,” he bit out before storming off. It was all he thought he could get out right then. He easily outpaced his massive shadows and ducked into a restroom. Locking himself into a stall, he bit his fist and let out a few sobs of his own. He vowed that he wouldn’t cry, because then Longbottom – and everyone else – would be able to tell that he was weak.

Longbottom – _Neville_ , a small part of him pleaded – needed to be the example.

.o0O0o.

When he had returned home, he quickly reported to his father what he had done. He wanted to get the words over with so he could go back to his rooms and take comfort in his book-friends. _They_ could see him be weak.

Instead, his father had congratulated him and insisted that he stay and chat for a time. It was then that he told Draco what a blood traitor actually was – as well as the definitions of Muggleborn, Half-Blood, and Mudblood. By the time he had finished, Draco felt like his ears were ringing and there was a sick pit in his stomach.

Walking slowly back to his rooms, Draco began to question what he had done. Had he really just hurt one of his best friends because Neville’s family liked people whether they were purebloods or not? And the Longbottoms were still a pureblooded family; why was it important at all if they didn’t even try to interrupt their magical line?

Trudging through the bedroom doors, he quickly kicked off his shoes and slid under his covers. Dragging Penha over, he hugged the book close and pet his spine until he responded with a flutter.

“What’s wrong, child?” came the warm, oddly-accented voice. That voice had been such a comfort to him over the last six years, and he really needed that right then.

At that simple question, the floodgates broke. He poured out his sorrows to the book, his voice cracking into sobs now and again. And all through it, the book just listened and soothed him, quietly pressing him on.

Draco couldn’t help but feel he didn’t deserve it.

When all was told, he curled up around the book again, resting his forehead on the cool leather.

“You are right, child. Neville did not deserve your words. He was a good friend, wasn’t he?” Draco nodded morosely, almost wishing the book would scold him instead of comfort him. Eshe would probably scold him if she was awake, but he couldn’t make himself reach for her too.

“But Father was so happy… He said he was proud of me, Penha. He almost never says that…” It was true. Sure, sometimes he could _hear_ pride in his father’s voice when he called Draco his son, but…but it was so much more real when he _said_ it. It was only when Draco managed to do _exactly_ what Lucius wanted that he might say he was proud – and only sometimes, then.

“Hurting others is not something to be proud of, Draco, no matter what your father has said,” Penha chided. “And judging a man’s worth by his blood or the blood of his friends will breed nothing but pain. Will you apologize to him?”

“I can’t.” Draco’s voice was small and broken, and he knew it.

“You can, but you don’t _have_ to. The choice, however, is yours.” Draco felt the disappointment in Penha’s voice more potently than he’d ever felt it in his father’s.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. He knew what he _had_ to do; maybe he had a choice, but it wasn’t _really_ a choice. He had to do what Father told him to – he _had_ to. There was a tiny place in his heart where Neville and Penha’s voices mingled and told him otherwise, but he knew he had to keep that hidden away.

The choice was his, and he made the only choice that he could. He knew then that another part of what he said to Neville – Longbottom, now – earlier was also untrue. Draco was the one who was the traitor. He had betrayed his friend for an ideal he didn’t like, and he had betrayed his father by not really believing in his ideals. His body shook with sobs long after his eyes had dried, and he finally found sleep only when guilt had tired of crushing his soul.


	4. Sorrow

** Part Four: **

At twelve, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Sorrow.

It had been an interesting day, to say the least. His father – renowned for his stoicism – had actually gotten _angry_ enough with another man to strike at him with his _fists_. And all for no reason that Draco could discern! He had seen his father take much greater insults from even lesser men and return them with a sneer and a few cutting words to bring the imbecile who dared back into line.

Granted, the man was a Weasley and thus by nature pretty thick. However, even given the history of the famous Malfoy-Weasley feud, Draco couldn’t figure out just how the man had managed to get under _his father’s_ skin. Draco had long wished for his father’s abilities to withstand and return insult, but unfortunately more often than not found himself going toe-to-toe with hotheaded Gryffindors – and sometimes losing.

Draco had headed up to his room as soon as they had gotten home with the excuse of studying his new books. His father had looked tired – more so even than normal, these days – and he didn’t want to show how worried he’d been. When his father had simply given a wan nod in response, Draco had needed to bite the inside of his lower lip to keep his face from revealing his concern.

It had started sometime last school year, that weariness. Draco didn’t know what to make of it. At first there had been more anxiety laced into it, but now… It almost seemed as if there was a large weight bearing down on his father’s shoulders, and the man was doing everything he could just to stay standing tall under it. He wasn’t certain that anyone outside of his family would notice it, but it was plain as day to him.

Of course, he hadn’t said anything to his parents. They liked to believe that he wasn’t exactly perceptive, and he liked them to believe that. They let more things slip in front of him that way, and he could make excuses about snooping much more easily. If he’d mentioned his worries, he knew they would keep a sharper eye on what they said around him. And he really did like knowing things – he had even tried to leave his book-friends lying about the common areas of the manor in hopes that they would spy for him. They had quietly refused to do so, stating that the magic that made them active around him didn’t extend to that. He rather wondered if it was just an excuse.

Draco lay in his bed, staring up at the dark canopy as he mulled over the situation. Rolling over to relate his worries to Penha, he recalled that he had once again left the book in the lounge. Sighing, he rolled off the bed and went in search of his friend. Leaving the books in places in hopes of just a tad bit of spying was certainly inconvenient when he wanted to talk to them, he noted.

Padding silently downstairs, he quickly located his book and was on his way back when he heard the strangest sound. Certain that it had come from his father’s study, he chanced a peek into the room. What met his eyes nearly made him drop Penha.

The sound – which he had thought suspiciously resembled a sob – had indeed come from his father’s study. In fact, it _had_ been a sob, and it had come from _his father_. Draco’s eyes grew wider and wider as he pressed closer to the door. There sat his father – the ever-proud Lucius Malfoy – on the edge of one of his chairs, legs splayed, elbows on knees, head in his hands, and fingers in his hair…sobbing brokenly.

Draco’s throat tightened in both empathy and fear. On one hand, he wanted to go to his father and be a comfort to the man who had loved and raised him. On the other hand, the thought of what could reduce the stern patriarch to frame-wracking sobs was so terrifying he couldn’t think to move.

His mother swept in, then, from one of the side doors, and ran to his father’s side. Kneeling beside him, she cupped his jaw and lifted his face. The sight of it was enough to make Draco’s eyes prickle and his knees ready to buckle.

There were lines of agony etched into his father’s handsome face. Tears tracked their ways down his cheeks. There was a redness around his eyes, but that was the only color he had. His skin, normally a flawless pale, was translucent and sickly with all of the blood drained from it. But it was the piercing look in his grey eyes and the wretched shape of his grimacing mouth that struck the hardest. Draco had felt sadness, and he had felt guilt, but now he knew he had seen the face of sorrow and that nothing had ever wrenched his heart quite so hard.

“Lucius! Lucius, my love, what is wrong?” Narcissa pleaded with him, running first the pads of her fingers and then her handkerchief over his cheeks.

“I have done…terrible things,” he bit out, “but none so terrible as what I have wrought today.” A shudder tore through his frame and it was only his wife’s strong hands that kept him from hiding his face again.

“What could you have done, my love?” was the quiet reply, gentle even in it’s reflected sorrow.

“The diary… Oh, Cissa, the _diary_. I slipped it to the girl. The youngest one. Right into her book!” He choked on a wail, trying to pry himself from the delicate hands that gripped him. “He…he told me to, and now… Oh, Cissa…Cissy, she’s a child – a _child_! I have done terrible things, but never in my years…a child!” he cried, wrapping his arms around his head and curling down into his lap.

Draco heard his mother’s cry of dismay, and then she was wrapping herself over her husband, holding him in an embrace that managed to be terrified and loving and protective all at once.

“And…she’ll bring it with her. There will be more children. I can’t…” his words tumbled off into soundless pleas. Draco swore he could still hear them echoing around him.

“Maybe…maybe they will find it. Maybe they will dispose of it as we could not.” Narcissa didn’t sound at all convinced of her own words, fearful as they were. Whatever they boded, Draco could only hope that – against whatever odds – his mother was right.

“How can you look at me? This day, I have truly become a monster,” Lucius whispered, and it was only due to the fact that his ears were straining for it that Draco heard it at all.

“ _You_ are not the monster, love. _HE_ is.” Draco had never heard such venom in his mother’s voice in all of his twelve years, and that there existed someone who could invoke such a tone caused the fear in him to jump up a notch. “And I love you – forever and for always. We will get through this…again.”

His father seemed to deflate at those words, as if he had lost even the will to continue his mental flagellation. His mother stood gracefully, holding out her strong, delicate hands for his father and beckoning him to come and to lie down. He allowed her to lead him, lifelessness seeping through his every movement.

Draco broke out of his trance and hastily stepped away from the door. He darted quickly up the nearest stairs to the first landing and hid there just as they came through the doors. He watched them go down the hall to their rooms, then slowly made his way back up to his own.

“…Draco?” he heard Penha quietly ask, worry evident in his tone.

“I’m scared,” he returned, unable to think of anything else to say. Reaching up to rub at his itching eyes – likely from staring so hard without blinking, he reckoned – he was startled to find wetness all around there and down his cheeks. He stared at his damp fingers in shock – he hadn’t cried since the incident with Neville – then quickly scrubbed at his face until the only evidence was the blotchy red flush all over.

Penha spoke quietly to him for awhile after that, but Draco couldn’t bring himself to do more than nod along. The image of his father’s stricken face was burned into his eyes, and he drowned in his friend’s soft voice as sleep eluded him.


	5. Ideas

** Part Five: **

At twelve, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Ideas.

It had been a rather awful year, all in all. After the eavesdropping incident, Lucius had gone back to his normal, closed-off self for the most part. He had entreated Draco to step up on any public insults or taunts whenever he could, and Draco had complied. It had earned him the seeping feelings of roiling disappointment from both Eshe and Penha, but he knew there was nothing for it. He would apologize to them, but he refused to take back anything he said to anyone else. He wasn’t always as sharp as he liked, but he was also far from stupid; he knew there was some sort of link between his parents’ fear and the request, and it spurred him on.

Before he had left for Hogwarts, his parents had both urged him to keep his head down and to never go wandering alone. He saw the fear there behind the stern warnings, though, and tried his best to comply with that as well.

And _then_ …students had started getting petrified, and the threat of death hung over the school. Draco did his best to act like he was in-the-know, but he was just as terrified and bewildered as everyone else. Snippets of his parents conversation floated back to him – talk about children and terrible things – and he wondered how the diary they’d mentioned was involved. In the end, Saint Potty had slain the basilisk and reigned holy in the eyes of all and sundry once again. As much as Draco seethed at the notion of that idiot getting even _more_ fame, he quietly let out his own sigh of relief when he had gotten a moment alone. If Potter had killed the basilisk, then it was one less thing for Draco – and his parents – to worry about.

It also might have brought to mind his mother’s fervent wish for something or other to be ‘disposed of’ – something his family couldn’t get rid of itself.

The icing on the cake of the terrible year, though, had come the day he was informed that his father had been forced to step down from the School Governors’ Council. He had thought to approach his father as he left the school, but the stormy look on Lucius Malfoy’s face had been more than enough to disavow him of that notion. It was a curious thing, too, to see the book he had taunted Potter over earlier in the year roughed up, stained with ink, and nearly crushed in his father’s fist as he brushed by the alcove Draco had dipped into.

And then something clicked. Father had spoken of a diary – of slipping a diary to the Weaslette. And then Mother spoke of destroying it. And then Potter had it. And then Potter destroyed the basilisk. And then Father had the destroyed diary and looked positively furious.

Draco wanted answers. How was it related? He knew that Slytherin’s Heir fit somewhere into the whole scheme, but he couldn’t piece it in. There had been no arrests, so… Frustrated, Draco made a decision. It was finally time to come clean about his perceptiveness. He was going to turn thirteen in just under a month, and perhaps his parents would realize that he was capable of keeping their secrets as well as his own. Eshe had cautioned him, but he had shaken it off and told her that it would be fine.

Carefully making his way downstairs, he had stalked confidently into the drawing room and asked to speak with his parents. He precisely laid out for them the things he knew and the questions he wanted answers for, taking care to seem unhurried in his words and more interested in his nails than in what he was saying. It was for this reason that he didn’t notice until the end – when he went to flick his eyes back to them and tilt his head in bored curiosity – that all the blood had drained from their faces. Their hands were clutched hard into fists, and they wore matching tight expressions.

It was then that Eshe’s warning wormed its way back into Draco’s mind. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so sure of everything being alright. The silence in the room stretched taut for many long moments, and finally Draco directed his eyes down and broke the stare-off. He wasn’t sure if he was actually embarrassed or ashamed, but there was something uncomfortable twisting at his stomach and he knew it best to lower his gaze.

His mother’s quiet sigh was the first thing he heard from their side of the room. She had closed her eyes and wore a tight, resigned look on her face. His father reached for her hand, squeezed it once, and then leaned forward to speak into his steepled fingers. He looked straight ahead at the coffee table separating them – never once looking to Draco, which was incredibly disconcerting – as he related the delicate situation their family was in.

An hour later, Draco was wishing he had never asked. He was in a daze as he marched back into his room, sprawling on the bed to stare blankly past the ceiling. The Dark Lord Voldemort – He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named – was returning. He knew some of the stories, but had never given them much thought as Saint Potty had supposedly disposed of him when they were both just infants. And now, he was coming back, and Draco’s family was stuck right at the fore of it.

You-Know-Who – the true Heir of Slytherin – had put a part of himself into his diary. Through it, he managed to control another person – the Weaslette, Draco assumed – and open the Chamber of Secrets to let out the basilisk. He had begun his return sometime the previous year – probably around when Lucius had started looking anxious and weary – and had ordered Draco’s father to slip the diary to an unsuspecting person where it could get back to Hogwarts.

Father had done as he’d asked, as Father had no choice. Draco pondered over this piece of information for a moment. His father had apparently joined the Dark Lord’s Death Eaters as a young man pursuing glory, and now he was among the first that were called on upon the Dark Lord’s return.

And Draco had just waltzed in and flaunted his knowledge as if it were nothing.

He groaned at the realization of how stupid he had been. He was certain that shock was the only reason his parents hadn’t stopped him from blathering on and on in the first place. How immature they must think him now! How stupid!

It was in the middle of his bout of mental self-abuse that the quiet voice of Penha piped up. “Draco?” he asked worriedly.

Draco froze, then lifted his arms up enough to peek one eye warily at the fluttering book. What had Father just told him about books? To never trust a book that could talk back. The Dark Lord’s diary had been able to write and talk back as it gained power – power it stole from the Weasley girl, nearly killing her. Hadn’t these books both bound to him after tasting of his blood?

Draco sprang up and scrambled away from the book as quickly as he could. “Get away from me!” he yelled, stumbling backwards off the bed and into his nightstand.

“Draco?” Eshe piped up, equally worried, from behind him. He whirled on her, seeing her float up off the nightstand to ‘face’ him with her spine.

“Ahh! No! Both of you, stay back! I won’t let you get me anymore!” he cried, eyes darting wildly about. He wondered if he could get around the bed and to the door before one of them could stop him. He’d get his parents and explain and then they’d-

“Draco, what the blazes are you going on about? Why are you suddenly afraid of us?” Penha was sounding more worried, and Draco’s frantic mind wondered if it was still the act or if it was over being found out.

Then it hit him: the books knew what went through his mind! Eshe sensed his thoughts, Penha sensed his feelings – and somehow they connected to each other to share them. They fed off of his power – hadn’t they admitted that they didn’t really function when he was away from them?

Finally, there was a growl. “Draco Lucius Malfoy, you will calm down this instant and explain just what has gotten into you!” Eshe commanded. Her voice sounded so much like his mother’s did when she was scolding him for something he did that frightened her for his safety, and he so desperately wanted to believe…

He broke, unable to hold it in. If his two closest friends really turned out to be soul-snatching objects of Dark Magic, then he wanted to know for certain. It hovered in his mind that they had constantly raked him over the coals for even _mentioning_ use of the Dark Arts, and that little piece of hope held tightly.

“You’re talking books. Father warned me to never trust a book that could talk back.” He explained about the Dark Lord’s diary, and what he knew of what it had done to the Weasley girl. He could feel – somehow – as comprehension dawned within the books.

“Oh, child,” Penha’s soft voice drifted to him, sympathy laced in every word. “You have nothing to fear from us. We take none of your soul, and it is the magic of your need and your belief that sustains us – not the power of your life energy.”

Eshe bobbed as if nodding, then set down on the bed next to Penha. “I assume from what you said about this Dark Lord that the part of himself he put into that diary was a piece of his own soul. We could never take such a thing from you, especially not without you specifically forcing it into us. We partook of a few drops of your blood to link to you on a magical level, but we are definitely more _yours_ than you are _ours_ , little one.”

“What? His soul? That’s not possible,” Draco responded, not quite ready to acknowledge the second part of the explanation.

“It is possible, but it is a very Dark thing indeed. One cannot split their soul and stay sane. Then again, the Dark Lords and Ladies of the past were never known for their sanity, from what I recall,” Eshe continued, knowing after so many years that Draco’s brush offs were really queries to know more.

Draco stayed silent for a moment, letting it sink in. Alright, so what they had said so far made sense, but there were still gaping holes, such as… “But then what are you? Are you souls in books too? Why wouldn’t you feed off of me like that book fed off the Weaslette?”

It still rather surprised him when Eshe’s bindings managed to shift into a moue of displeasure at his nicknames for the youngest two Weasleys. If it were a less serious conversation, he would have rolled his eyes. She always seemed to miss the point of that fact that their families had a blood-feud, and that he was meant to hate them – yes, even for no real reason. They were also both bloody annoying, anyway, as was that other one…Peter? No, Percy. Maybe he could start calling that one ‘Handbag’ and make jokes about how his mother had been wishing for one instead of him. The twins didn’t seem so bad, only somewhat daft, but he stayed away from them; Gryffindor or not, they had too many nasty tricks that he didn’t want to find himself on the other end of. Shaking his head to clear it of gingers, he raised an eyebrow and looked at Eshe expectantly.

Sighing, the book seemed to shake itself wearily and moved on. “We were made quite differently – none of that mucking about with souls, I promise you. He ‘fed’ – so to speak – off the Weasley child in an attempt to drain her life energy and create for himself a new body to bind himself in. By bonding her soul to the book – I’m assuming inadvertently – she gave him access to that sort of power.

“Remember our lessons on magic? One can draw magic from outside sources to do their bidding. However, it is difficult and generally requires a certain amount of compliance. She gave him access, and so as he drew in that energy and became more material, she slowly ceased to be.”

Draco reeled for a moment. It was always striking when he found practical application for Eshe’s lessons. Penha’s seemed so much smaller and focused on everyday things, but Eshe’s were always so abstract that it was sometimes years before they really rang true for him. “I suppose this is also one of those things you mentioned that could be done, but shouldn’t?” he ventured.

“Exactly,” she said, her pages fluffing up behind her in pleasure. She would often do something like that when he would quote her words back at her in understanding. She was probably the only being in existence who _liked_ having words from years ago thrown back at her.

“But then what about you? If you’re not like _that_ book, then how do you…do what you do?” he asked lamely.

“Ah, time for a history lesson of sorts, I suppose,” Penha chimed in. His bindings had parted to show the lines of the pages tightly packed together along the spine – what Draco had come to associate with a toothy grin.

“You see, Eshe and I were once like you – living people. People came from far and wide to speak with us, and we traveled the world to share our knowledge. We were amidst the very few Wizarding folk to push three centuries, and we lived good lives in that time.

“We had other names then, she and I, but they are lost to us now. We have had many names since, and shall likely have many more in the time to come. She was known for her advice about life; I was known for my advice about love. Two of the strongest forces in the universe, those, and so many reached out for answers.

“When we became far too old to travel and we knew our days were numbered, we garnered help in creating the two books you see before you. We are like your talking portraits of real people, in many ways. We retain nearly all of the memories of our long, lovely lives – all of the advice that we gave to thousands upon thousands are committed to our pages as clear as a Pensieve. When our bodies finally were at rest, our souls passed on peacefully to the next step after life – and our books awoke.

“We imbued them with the ability to bond to people, to share their minds and their hearts so that we could continue to give unto them our knowledge and advice. We have been reviled and coveted, separated and brought together again, destroyed and rejuvenated. We have been bonded to many at once, and have lain dormant for decades on end.

“Our one internal magic, though, is that we will call out to those who we know will need us most – as Eshe called to you that day in the library. I would have called too, had you not picked us up so quickly. You can put us away at any time, and we will never spill a single of your secrets; but know also that we will remain with you as long as you need us.”

The tone Penha used filled Draco’s heart to the brim with warmth. He closed his eyes tightly to prevent the moment of soppiness that threatened to overtake him. He could feel the tiny little thrum of their bond, and there was no question of the truth of Penha’s words. Stepping out of his defensive pose, he smiled and stepped back over to the bed. He curled up on his side around Penha, Eshe settling down and leaning against his back.

One thought niggled at him still. “How is it you say you were destroyed, and yet you’re still here?”

Eshe chuckled. “We can regenerate, so long as those that might need us are nearby. It takes time, but the stronger they believe in us the faster we can do it.” She was met with Draco’s silence, which years had also taught her was a sign of his confusion and unwillingness to ask again. “You see, we don’t take magic directly from those bonded to us – we take power from the strength of their _belief_.”

“How does that somehow equate to you being indestructible?”

“Because the magic is not centered on _us_ , but on the ideas we represent. You can kill a _person_ easily enough, but it is almost impossible to kill an _idea_. Once an idea has taken root, you would have to wipe out every single person who ever thought of it – even in passing – in order to truly kill it. And, well, we are based on some rather powerful ideas – I think everyone has pondered both of them at least once in their lifetime. So…until sentient life ceases to exist, we will probably be around,” she answered matter-of-factly, seemingly unbothered by the fact that she was essentially stating that their book-existence was nigh near _immortal_.

Draco just laughed, as that was just so…Eshe. She could take the most profound ideas of the universe and spit them out in a few terse sentences. After a few moments of pleasant silence, Draco piped up again. “So, since you aren’t evil books bent on stealing my life essence…”

He slipped back into the knowledge he’d gained that afternoon. He was feeling much less tense over it, but it still loomed in the back of his mind. His family was heading for darker days, and he was terrified that he might not be able to weather the storm as easily as his parents. Perhaps, though, with his two friends, he might stand a chance.

Several hours later, a House Elf came to call him for supper. Just as Draco was about to leave, he stopped in the doorway and pondered an amusing thought. “You know, if you have been so battered in the past, why are you so damn picky about going into my school bag?”

Penha’s equally amused voice floated over to him, “You will find, child, that you can be battered within an inch of your life and yet still be unhappy about a single, shallow scratch.”

Laughing, Draco went down to face his parents again, bolstering himself for what was sure to be an interesting dinner.


	6. Complexity and Simplicity

 

** Part Six: **

At thirteen, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Complexity and Simplicity.

Not a week had passed since his birthday when Draco had suddenly found himself introduced to his Aunt Bellatrix and Uncle Rodolphus. He had been terrified. Sentenced to life in Azkaban for Death Eater activity, they had recently escaped and decided to drop in for a visit. Rather, that was how _they_ had phrased it. It took all Draco had to keep from flinching as they shrieked with laughter and broke various expensive decorations for seemingly no reason other than the joy of destruction. The tight look on his mother’s face and the cold set of his father’s features were meant to betray no emotion, but in doing so spoke volumes to Draco.

No one in his family was happy about their uninvited guests.

Luckily, they were easily convinced that the homes of relatives were the first places the Ministry would search; they left within a few days. The memory of them, however, haunted Draco for the next fortnight. He had tried his best to remain silent for most of the visit, for a change calling as little attention to himself as possible. It had kept him out of their way, but also gave him opportunity to observe. Was the madness he saw in them a side effect of their imprisonment? Or was it more of a staple for those who happily called themselves Death Eaters? His father had never acted in such an uncouth manner, but he had his own doubts about his father’s feelings toward the Dark Lord.

The questions burned in him. On one hand, like many subjects in his life, he simply yearned for knowledge he didn’t yet have. On the other, he knew that this would be an important piece of knowledge to have in the coming times. There was a niggling doubt that stressed that he probably didn’t really want to know – it took Eshe’s voice in his mind and reminded him of his folly earlier that summer. He had quietly gathered a bit more knowledge about the situation since then, but he knew it probably wasn’t much in the grand scheme. The doubt was easily overshadowed, though – he had always been a curious child, and years of getting bitten for it had yet to change that.

He made for himself a tentative list of the various questions he wanted to ask, revising and adding and merging them as best he could. He did his best to prioritize them, but it was a difficult process. There were many questions he saw as all-important – such as whether or not his father actually still _wanted_ to be a Death Eater – but he dithered about them for fear of what the answers would be. What if he didn’t get the answers he wanted? What if something they said didn’t sit right with him? He shuddered in remembrance of his dual betrayal nearly three years prior, knowing that he would do as his parents asked regardless of his feelings. To a pureblood, family is the most important thing in the world; all else – morals included – come second.

Eshe had argued with him on that point more than once. “Whose morals dictate what is best for the family? If the progeny just keep following the tenets of the ancestor, where is there room for change? Where is there room for improvement? What happens when _no one_ really believes it is what is best anymore, but they are too busy following along to strike out of that mold?”

Draco didn’t have an easy answer for her. There were points on both sides of the line: tradition versus evolution. Traditions gave them something to take pride in, something to hand down to one’s children and say ‘this is where you come from.’ Evolution, however, was equally important in a world where new ideas were founded and new discoveries were made every day. In the end, he decided, what was truly necessary was a balance between the two – precarious as such a thing could be. He loved his heritage and many of the old Wizarding traditions that had been passed down to him through it, but he could admit that some of the others were oppressive. If nothing ever changed, the world would simply stagnate – and man was made to adapt. However, the question remained: who was _he_ – a _child_ – to question the wisdom of so many who had come before?

He hesitated over his list, scratching out and rewriting it so many times he wondered he hadn’t run out of parchment. His vacillation between burning curiosity and gut-clenching trepidation staid his hand again and again when he thought of requesting to speak with his parents on the matter. A suggestion from Eshe finally helped to settle a portion of his fears.

“Take four more sets of parchment,” she instructed quietly. “On the first one, consider all the ways you can think of that every question might be answered. On the second, write down how you feel about each of those answers and decide which you can and cannot accept. On the third, write your _own_ answers to those questions; take the time to know your own feelings before saying you will acquiesce to theirs. On the fourth, figure out how you might seek to adjust their tenets to keep from betraying _yourself_.”

Draco quickly set out to do all but the fourth. Eshe might have her wisdom, yes, but these were his parents. He wasn’t always a saint, but he was generally an obedient child where they were concerned. Not to mention they always seemed able to argue him into or out of anything. He was almost as unsure that he _wanted_ to stand against anything they said as he was that he might be able to make a case against anything they said.

The first had been the easiest by far. He wrote down everything from the tamest dismissals to the most outrageous of claims. If it hadn’t been such a serious issue he might have actually had fun with it. The second was proving to be significantly harder, and the third had him chewing through three quills before he threw the last down and sneered at the blank page.

“Don’t think too hard about it,” Penha piped in helpfully. “Just write. Write down every thought about each possibility. Sometimes we think too hard and forget we’re supposed to be feeling – that’s usually when we begin lying to ourselves if the truth is too difficult to bear.”

So, Draco did. He stopped paying attention to the words that were written, concentrating on each issue and feeling his way through them. He let his eyes lose focus on the parchment, only keeping them open to make sure that he was writing in straight lines instead of overlapping. That, in and of itself, was both terrifying and freeing. He had long been taught to think before he spoke and to put as much deliberation behind a word or action as possible; things blew up less often that way. But to express without limit? He only hoped he found more than gibberish in the end.

He finished the second set of parchments quickly, and then the third were a breeze. By figuring out his reaction to each possible answer, he had easily come to his own conclusions. When he finally finished, late into the night, he read through them. Those closer to the beginning were choppier and a bit hesitant, but as he went on they flowed more easily. He had expected that. What he hadn’t expected, though, were some of his own answers.

He didn’t want to follow the Dark Lord – everything he answered for himself clearly pointed to such. True, he didn’t necessarily want to jaunt over and join the Harry Potter Fan Club either. He didn’t want to fight a war, and the thought of having to take another person’s life made him exceptionally queasy. He wanted to stand by his parents – his family – but he was unsure of where he _could_ stand among them. He would do _anything_ to keep them safe, from abandoning his morals to giving up his very soul if he had to. When he was honest, he didn’t actually _care_ about blood purity; it was more the awful customs and limiting ideas that Muggleborns brought over from the Muggle world – touting their skewed principles and trampling age-old traditions – that he took issue with. If the Dark Lord had indeed split his soul for that nasty business with the diary, he fully believed Eshe’s statement that he could not remain sane after doing so. He was afraid of the things that would come, and despite his dislike of the smarmy Savior, he silently prayed that he would put a quick end to the Dark Lord once again…permanently, preferably.

Finding his own answers had a dual effect. There was a new steadiness in his mind – a mingling of calmness and acceptance – that gave him hope that he might actually weather the coming storm. Alternately, his fear – of his parents’ answers and of what was to come alike – had increased tenfold. He knew the worst case scenarios – or, at least, what he could fathom of them – and no amount of hoping for the best could keep them from his mind for long.

This time, when Draco went to search out his parents, he understood that this was all far above his own head. He picked a time when he knew that his father would be away, choosing to address his mother alone first. She had always been easier to talk to – more understanding of the way her words affected her son. Though she would keep a haughty façade for the rest of the world, she had never once failed to let Draco know that she loved him dearly. He’d made sure to memorize exactly what he wanted to bring up – questions and his own answers alike – then tucked the parchments away from prying eyes.

Clearing his throat, Draco knocked lightly on the open door of his mother’s sitting room. When she looked up from her book and smiled at him, his palms began to sweat. Words lodged in his throat and he was grateful for the reprieve when she simply beckoned him in to sit down. “Good afternoon, Mother,” he finally managed, catching a raised eyebrow in response. He winced internally when she slowly closed her book; it was the mark that she knew they were in for a long talk. Suddenly, everything he’d had prepared seemed so silly, so insignificant. He was just a boy, and he was here to ask things that likely weren’t for boys to know.

Taking a deep breath, he tried to steady himself. “There are a few matters I wish to discuss with you,” he began haltingly. A spark of fear flashed across her eyes before he saw her shutter them, but she gave him a nod to continue. “I have learned that there are many issues at hand that I find myself…curious about.” It didn’t sound _quite_ right, but he was lost for another form of expression short of blurting out the first question. “There are questions that I am uncertain of the answers to, and worries about possible incongruous ideas regarding those answers.” He bit the inside of his lip in thought, then braced himself to ask the most pressing question.

“Draco,” his mother interrupted politely. He shut his mouth quickly and nodded to her, confusion making his eyebrows draw in just a little. “Did you know that there is no such thing as a simple question?” she continued, tilting her head slightly as if curious.

“I have…never thought about it, Mother.” Her tone made him wary, but he knew he would only get his answers when she was ready.

“It’s a fascinating idea, really. Even a question with the most simplistic of answers has a long and complicated set of reasoning behind it.” Slowly, she rose, concentrating on the closed book in her hands as she turned to the side. “I could ask you something seemingly simple and innocent, and yet be asking a hundred more questions beneath that.” She began to pace over to the small collection of books spanning the wall behind her, gently tapping the cover in her hands.

“Say, if I were to ask if you had received a detention in my weekly letters while you are at school, you might answer me with a ‘yes’ or a ‘no’?”

“I suppose I would,” Draco said evasively. He usually did his best to avoid that question. If he _did_ have to answer it, it was usually accompanied by a long rant detailing why it was most certainly an injustice and in no way his fault – even when he knew perfectly well that it was.

She nodded, a hint of a smile twitching at the corner of her lips before she turned fully to the wall. “It would seem a very straightforward question, I’m sure, but there is much more to it than first meets the eye.” Draco was feeling uncertainty cloud him, and his urgency to have his own questions answered made him shuffle in his seat.

Narcissa carefully rearranged a book on the shelf before moving on, and Draco realized with a jolt that this was his mother’s version of fidgeting. That revelation made his heart speed further. “Underneath it, I am asking many things. How are you? How are you getting along with your classmates? And your professors? Are you being good? Have you been doing as you were told? Am I wrong to trust you to be doing well on your own? Are you in trouble? Do you need help?” The tone of conversational curiosity she used didn’t falter throughout, but the way she paused all movement as she said the last three made Draco snap to attention.

It took a few moments, but he understood. The last three questions were not simply part of the explanation. He’d been taught about subtext, but he still had issues spotting it at times. He gave the tiniest fraction of a smile and just barely twitched his head in a shake. He knew that she was watching from the corner of her eye, which was confirmed when she reached to finger another group of books as soon as he’d made his move. He took that as her being satisfied, but made sure to listen harder to what she was perhaps saying parallel to her words.

“I do worry about you, you know. You are away and at school so often now.” _I can’t protect you all the time._ “When you are home, there is always so much going on that we can barely talk anymore.” _Please don’t speak plainly; the walls have ears now._ “Sometimes your father and I want to steal you away and have you all to ourselves again.” _We would love to keep you safe from everything, but we know we can’t._ Narcissa chuckled ruefully, abandoning her perusal of the shelves to face Draco again. She elegantly leaned one hip against the small writing desk there.

“I wish we had more time to talk about things.” Draco swallowed heavily, understanding the double-edged statement clearly. His mother gave him a small smile that didn’t quite reach her tired eyes. Reaching out, she gently set down the book in her hands and plucked a small quill, twirling it carelessly. “When we were younger, your father and I used to write each other when we couldn’t meet face to face. We still do, on occasion, when life conspires to keep us overly busy or away from one another.”

A hint of a grin crept into her smile, and Draco returned it while raising his eyebrow in question. “Before we were married, we wrote much more often. There were so many things that we believed required private discussion, but we would never have been left truly alone by our parents.” She gave a small laugh. “Those were different days, I suppose. Don’t worry, darling, I won’t make you take a chaperone on any dates,” she interjected with teasing sweetness. Draco snorted; of course she wouldn’t – she’d just make sure there was a nearby tail to interrupt anything more intimate than holding hands.

“We wouldn’t sign them, just in case we were caught with them. We tried our best to keep out anything that could identify us. My mother found one once, but I managed to convince her it was a very practical discussion with a female friend.” Narcissa smirked, her amusement evident. “Andr-…my sister nearly gave us away with her teasing at one point.” Draco wasn’t certain why his mother’s eyes darkened as they did, then. Why was she sad? Had Bellatrix changed that much from their youth, perhaps?

Waving the quill as if to banish the thought, Narcissa tapped it against her lips in thought. “You know, perhaps we should write each other more, too,” she exclaimed, as if the thought has just occurred to her. “That way, even when we don’t have time to talk, we can still keep in touch.” Her lips held a pleased smile – the closest a witch of high society was likely to get to beaming.

And then it hit Draco: letters. Unsigned letters. His mother’s seemingly idle chatter had all been a lead up. Leave off the signatures, and don’t say anything to let on who it’s from. Unwanted eavesdroppers could easily be avoided when there was nothing to overhear. Keeping them short and sporadic would lessen the likelihood of them being linked. And…if they used subtext where they could, then even if the letters were found they could be explained away. He felt his own lips twitch to match hers, his eyes bright with understanding. “Happen we should,” he replied, feeling some of his apprehension fading. He could do this, he was certain.

“Look at me, going all silly,” Narcissa piped airily, setting down the quill she’d been holding. “Now then, we have more than enough time to talk now. There was something you wanted to ask me about, wasn’t there?” She clapped lightly and a House Elf popped in with tea as she was retaking her seat.

Draco scrambled. He knew better than to ask his questions aloud now. What else could he ask? He strained to remember his leading words, trying to find something to pass off as his ‘important questions.’ “I was wondering…” _Got it!_ “I heard recently about the curriculum being taught at Durmstrang,” he replied lightly. “Many of my acquaintances are talking about how much more challenging the courses are there, and I admit that I am intrigued. I know Father wished for me to attend there instead. Why is it, really, that you sent me to Hogwarts?”

“Oh, darling,” Narcissa tutted, “why would you ever want to go to that dark, dank, dreary place?! Oh no, but you would have been much too far away from me, my love!” She reached over to brush a gentle touch to Draco’s cheek. He had known that his mother hadn’t wanted him so far away already, but he still liked hearing it. “And I never really favored that Karkaroff fellow they chose as Headmaster – a dubious sort, from what I’ve heard,” she added conspiratorially. “Plus, would you have really wanted to miss being taught by your godfather?” _And Severus can look after you there._ She prattled on in seemingly idle gossip, gradually turning the conversation away from their earlier discussion.

Despite that, Draco kept his mind on alert. It positively astounded him what kind of information he managed to gather from just one afternoon of conversation when he tried to look at her words as more than face value. He ardently wished he had started paying that sort of attention ages ago.

 

.o0O0o.

Draco ended up waiting a day before carefully drafting his first letter. Even with the help of his friends, it took him several hours to perfect the single paragraph. To be safe, he used an owl to send it off to his mother, ignoring the creature’s hoot of annoyance at being disturbed to deliver a note within the same household. Two hours later, a different owl brought him back a reply. The simple questions were sufficiently answered, and along with a postscript telling him he’d done well was an additional instruction: _Burn this._

And so it began. He hedged in the easiest of his questions first, building up to those he was most terrified of. Notes flitted back and forth between him and his mother several times on most days – full of both important queries and idle chatter. A small elf owl took up a perch in his rooms after the first week, making it even easier. He discussed each bit of information with Eshe and Penha, talking out the discoveries he could pull from her words. In turn, they helped him edit his list of questions to be more pertinent – dropping some that had turned out to be needless and adding others that had come to light.

A month and a half had passed before he got to some of the hardest questions. The time between replies stretched longer then, and he checked the clock often to make certain it wasn’t just his own impatience for the answers dragging the time out.

His mother’s replies, thank Merlin, relieved many of his worries even as they weighed heavily on him. She held no love for the Dark Lord and had no wish to be a part of his war. He had driven her sister mad, killed her cousin, and had her other cousin wrongfully imprisoned. Despite this, she insinuated that they didn’t have much choice in the matter. Draco was reminded of his Aunt’s actions and his mother’s reception of them earlier in the summer, thinking he was beginning to understand the danger.

The one thing that bothered him was that his mother never answered any questions in a way that would tell him anything of his father’s feelings. When he finally found the courage to press about it, the returning note held only a single sentence that filled him with dread: _You need to write to him._

Draco had been holding off on writing his father for as long as he could. To be perfectly honest, he was afraid. He loved the man dearly, but he was acutely aware of the small wall that had been erected between them the past few years. The stern but privately tender man he’d known as a child had become aloof, and Draco knew that he too had begun to pull away after that first incident with Longbottom. It was his father’s words about blood traitors and ‘Mudbloods’ that had inspired some of the more insidious answers he’d imagined for his list.

It took a week of pointed looks from his mother to finally force his hand. He knew his father would recognize the little puff of feathers that was his young owl, so he was as vague about who was sending the note as possible – Lucius would know. He made mention of there being many questions to ask, but he knew that there was one thing that he needed to know above all others. He knew his nerves wouldn’t survive the lead-up he’d gone through with his mother. He needed, more than anything, to know how his father felt about being a Death Eater. He tried again and again to sound sophisticated while remaining vague, but in the end gave up. On a line by itself, he added the slightly ridiculous sentence:

> _I’m not fond of tattoos._

As soon as his owl returned from her delivery, he sent her off again with a short entreaty to his mother: _I did it; please sit with me._ They spent the rest of the afternoon leaning affectionately against one another on a bench in the garden, Narcissa chattering soothingly to pass the time.

When it came time for supper, they had spent only fifteen minutes in the dining room before Narcissa suggested retiring to her sitting room with the meal. Lucius had not come down to dinner, and in that moment Draco had been almost too panicked to eat. His chest felt like a vice, and it was only his mother’s persistence that made him able to swallow half his meal.

Draco was confused when his mother had suddenly excused herself for a moment. As she left, the edge of his vision caught sight of a large, imposing gyrfalcon perched nearby. He hadn’t even heard the massive bird enter. Wiping his palms along his trouser-legs as he spun to face it, he cautiously made his approach. Despite the intimidating appearance, the bird sedately extended its claw when Draco approached and allowed him to take the missive held within. It gave one last regal look, then swooped away and out of the window cracked near the ceiling.

Draco stared at the small roll of parchment in his hand for several long minutes before he could bring himself to unroll it. When he did, he had to reread the single-sentence reply several times before it would sink in.

> _I consider them an obdurate blemish._

Falling to his knees, he felt ridiculous laughter rise in his throat. He wasn’t aware how long he had stayed there on the sitting room floor, laughing harshly in relief. Finally, he calmed himself and wiped at his eyes, taking a moment to dust himself off. He was barely back to the couch when his mother swept back in, and he stopped to give her a Look. She raised one delicate eyebrow at him and then said that if he was finished with his dinner then he should likely retire to his rooms. Exasperated, he only just managed to keep from rolling his eyes as he kissed her cheek and bid her goodnight.

 

.o0O0o.

The next school year, he felt more comfortable in his role. He had been able to make it clear that he didn’t really like some of the things that he had been taught to say to others, and his parents had apologized but asked that he continue to make public declarations that would keep suspicion away. He complied, taking in stride the scoldings he regularly received from his book-friends; there was less urgency to them now that his friends understood more of why he did it, but they felt the need to continue keeping him grounded – for which he was thankful.

After one particularly harrowing day, he had marched grouchily up to the Owlery to gripe to his mother.

> _Why is everything always so complicated? Why can nothing ever be simple?_

A misaimed spell had started a scuffle with a fifth year Ravenclaw, and then a simple muttered insult to the Golden Trio had landed him a detention. Goyle had spilled his incorrectly-brewed potion on him, making him slip and hit his head on a cabinet. (At least no one had really noticed that one, but the knot on his head still smarted.) One accident after another seemed to snowball into worse and worse things, and leaving the library that evening had just topped it all off. The tiniest little Hufflepuff – who honestly looked way too young to even be a first year – had run into him and spilled ink on his shoe. The big, watering eyes that had looked up at him made him wish he could relent and brush it off, but the heavy stares of those around him meant he had needed to glue his mask in place and tell her off. He wondered if even his irritable godfather wouldn’t feel like a bit of a monster after making her dash off in a fit of tears.

He was lying in bed later that night when he heard the soft hoot of his mother’s owl outside the tiny window into his dormitory. It was the one she used publicly, so he guessed there wasn’t anything potentially incriminating in her response. He quietly padded over to exchange a treat for the letter, then spelled his bed-curtains against his snooping dormmates. Unrolling the letter, he mumbled along as he read it.

  


> _Life is hard, and it is filled with many complications. Some of the hardest things we have to do are some of the most complex things we will have to deal with. Sometimes you like the result, sometimes you don’t, and sometimes you can be surprised._
> 
> _Though there are a million complexities woven all around it, I will tell you the one most simplistic thing in all the world: I love you._
> 
> _I have loved you since you were only the most abstract idea in my mind, and I have loved you more every moment of every day since I knew you to truly exist. I know, no matter what happens, that I will continue to love you ever increasingly into and past the bounds of infinite time, and even still after the very concepts of you and I have ceased to exist._
> 
> _Stay strong. We will persevere, in some form or another._

Draco hugged the letter tightly to his heart, curling up around it in the dim light of his wand. He pulled back to read it again and again, committing each and every word to memory so as to never forget. When he was certain he could quote it without thinking, he held his wand to it with shaking hands.

But he couldn’t burn it.

Again and again he tried to make himself do it, but he couldn’t find the will. He had dutifully burned every other missive he’d received from his parents before. This time, though, it was too hard. The emotions rushing through him at the moment refused to fuel a will to set the note alight. In the end, he had shuffled around to find Penha, folding the letter carefully before tucking it into the more than willing book. Penha fluttered happily at him when he registered what was written, making Draco roll his eyes and tell him to hush before falling asleep smiling.


	7. Good and Evil

** Part Seven: **

At fifteen, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Good and Evil.

He had been walking around in a daze for the last two weeks of fourth year. He went through the motions of each day – strut, study, sneer, sulk, sleep – on autopilot. If no one noticed that his taunts lacked venom or that his sleep was disturbed, it was likely the fact that everyone seemed to be just as affected.

He had been sitting right there in the stands – front and center – when Potter had reappeared from the maze with the body of Cedric Diggory, shouting about the return of the Dark Lord. Fear had clenched at his stomach, and it was agony trying to find a moment to get away and send a frantic query to his parents.

> _Is it true?_

> _Yes._

He had kept his head down for those last weeks for the most part. He had heard murmurs from some of the other Death Eater’s children that they thought he knew what was happening and was just letting the chaos reign on its own. He wanted to laugh at that notion, but the more in control they thought he was then the less he needed to worry about them questioning his family’s loyalty. Every now and then he would wonder if the other Houses were thankful for – or even aware of – the severely lessened teasing that occurred when the rest of Slytherin followed his example. Probably not, but it was an amusing thought.

His return home had been a nervous one. As soon as they had arrived within the warded walls of Malfoy Manor, the pacing and the lectures began. Do this, but don’t do that. Never mention this, and certainly don’t question that. Keep out from underfoot as much as possible. Don’t speak unless spoken to, and always use the proper form of address.

He often got a much more relaxed version of such a talk before every fancy event his family hosted or attended, but this time he wasn’t tempted to roll his eyes. This time he took in every word with rapt attention. This time he understood: they were about to have some very dangerous uninvited company.

He spent much of his summer hiding in his rooms, after that. Now and again he would hole up in the upper lofts of one of the libraries, but usually only when he knew that their ‘guests’ had just recently left and would likely be gone for awhile. He missed the sunshine and the gardens and the lake, but he’d heard Fenrir Greyback howling from somewhere below his balcony too many times to chance the outdoors – daytime or not.

The first set of guests had arrived a week after he’d been home and had seemed harmless enough. Some were the parents of a few of his friends, while others he recognized as several of his father’s business associates. It was only a firm look from his father that warned him to keep away from those discussions; those people were all Death Eaters, or they were soon to be.

His birthday had just passed when they received the first group of fugitive visitors. He caught one glimpse of his Aunt’s wild hair before scarpering in the other direction. A few days later he wasn’t so lucky and was treated to a very interesting dinner that he couldn’t escape from. He was well aware of how white his mother’s knuckles were on her silverware when Bellatrix had sat herself next to him and insisted on asking him taunting questions. If the questions themselves weren’t bad enough, the singsong manner she spoke them in was enough to make him severely uncomfortable all on its own.

Luckily for him, he must have answered her sufficiently. She had looked a bit put out about that, and he didn’t want to even begin fathoming why. He was glad when he managed to tentatively prod her into a discussion on magic, as her views were interesting and she seemed slightly less inclined to give him an aneurysm while on that topic. ‘Slightly’ being the key word.

After that there was almost always the trepidation of unwanted guests popping in at any mealtime when the family was certain to all be together. Draco did his best to act as he had been told and kept his head down. While he usually enjoyed attention, he was more than happy to fade into the background during those moments. So long as he didn’t have to speak, he was able to remain calm. …Mostly. There were times when he could feel the heavy stare of Greyback, and the werewolf never failed to make him quake in his boots.

He kept his ears open at all times, soaking in every detail that was said. He would relate everything to Eshe and Penha later, his friends doing a great deal to keep him sane. He still exchanged notes with his parents when he could, but he knew that it was much more difficult now. One wrong word could have them all killed, and he desperately attempted to make sure he wasn’t the one to say it.

It was mid-July when he really thought he was going to die.

He had decided that if he couldn’t enjoy the outdoors and didn’t want to be alone with his thoughts, he might as well get in some extra studying. It would at least take his mind off of things. He had holed himself up in his father’s library, glaring at a book full of ancient runes and trying to figure out why this one had a completely opposite effect when turned ninety degrees clockwise, but the same effect at one-hundred-eighty degrees and _no_ effect when rotated the other way. He paid no mind when he heard his father’s familiar footsteps enter the room below the small upper level, but when an unknown person strode in a few minutes later he quickly slid to the floor.

He held his breath for as long as he could while he attempted to quietly rearrange himself to be as inconspicuous as possible. He wasn’t overly interested in being accosted by any of the Death Eaters he’d met – especially one that could just stomp into his father’s private space without granted permission or a sharp reprimand. There was also a strange thickness to the air that made his fear almost tangible, and he was certain that he wasn’t just imagining it.

And then he heard that voice.

“Lucius. It has been far too long since we have been able to chat.”

There was no mistaking the dangerous timbre, and Draco’s fears were only confirmed by his father’s response. “Yes, my Lord.”

“How _is_ your family? I have heard Bellatrix say that your boy has grown up well.” Draco shuddered, just barely holding back a whimper. The last thing in the world he wanted to attract was the Dark Lord’s notice.

“My family has prospered, my Lord. I do indeed have a very clever boy. He will be a fine man one day, but he is young yet.” Draco would have been hurt and offended by the rueful tone his father used, but quickly realized that it was for the best that the Dark Lord not think him too capable. He was barely fifteen, but he’d heard stories of others having been Marked at his age in the past.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Draco worked hard to keep his breathing even and silent. It was a bit hard to tell with his heart pounding in his ears, but he must have done passably well – they didn’t seem to notice him. His pulse ratcheted up higher with every thinly veiled threat that the Dark Lord passed as pleasant conversation. If it wasn’t for the fact that his father seemed to have the perfect answers to diffuse each of them Draco was certain that his own heart would have exploded.

Then there came a shift when the Dark Lord had apparently tired of ‘pleasantries.’ He began to alternate between orders and thoughts about the things he would like to accomplish in the coming months. Lucius was forced to scramble to offer ideas and advice, doing his best to organize his master’s wishes with no forewarning.

Several of the things that cropped up Draco had prepared himself for; there were others that he had not. He knew that there would be raids, and that it was likely many people would be tortured and possibly killed. He wasn’t at all prepared for all the gory details of planning such a thing. Several of the Dark Lord’s targets made no sense to Draco whatsoever, while others he could understand even while they turned his stomach.

The Ministry made sense and was a given. So was Diagon Alley. The smaller towns were not. Draco heard several more places listed off that he vaguely registered as Muggle areas. And then there was Hogwarts.

Lucius seemed slightly taken aback at first as well, if his stuttered query was any indication. Draco had realized that if the Dark Lord’s plans indeed came to fruition, then it would eventually come to pass that only pureblooded students would attend his school and that the curriculum would likely change. What he hadn’t realized was that the Death Eaters would at some point be targeting all of the Half-Blood and Muggleborn children that Draco went to school with. The image of the tiny little first years flashed through his mind and he felt his stomach turn over.

What was worse, the attack was being set to occur while the school was in session, so that it was likely that all of the younger generation of non-purebloods would be present.

As much as he disliked their doddering old fool of a Headmaster, he gave silent prayer that the rumors of the Dark Lord’s fear held true. If he was afraid of Albus Dumbledore, then maybe the old man might have a chance of protecting the youths. It was only a matter of time if the Dark Lord was successful elsewhere, but Draco still prayed.

Time seemed to take forever from that point. The clock that Draco had so often accused of moving too quickly failed him; the ticks and tocks seemed ages apart now. Draco lay there for countless minutes as atrocity after atrocity was discussed with either enthusiasm or fond remembrance. He could only be thankful his stomach had dropped somewhere down near his toes and stayed there, for otherwise he might have thrown up more than once.

Draco nearly cried out in relief as the Dark Lord issued one last thinly-veiled threat and whisked off to Merlin-knew-where – he was just thankful the man was gone. His father was quiet for what seemed like a long time, then Draco heard him approach the tightly-spiraled staircase that led up to the overlooking loft and pause.

“Draco?” he called, quietly and hesitantly. Draco had never heard his father sound more unsure.

“Yes,” he croaked out in response, feeling the shudders finally overtake his body.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs and Draco only had a moment to process the look of desperation on Lucius’s face before he was hauled up and crushed against his father’s chest. It took him a few moments to get over the shock. When he did, he hesitantly brought his arms up to wrap around his father, curling up closer to the kneeling man. He felt the face buried against his hair and the quivering of a strong chest as his father held back the desperate sobs he knew were threatening. In response he squeezed his own eyes shut and clung tighter.

There were no apologies. There were no explanations. Draco understood without even a single word what the rash decisions of an ambitious young man had cost his father, and he forgave him for it all.

Neither of them spoke as they sat there for a seemingly endless amount of time, and the silence carried over when they finally stood and righted themselves. Draco let his father brush him off and right his robes, then nodded politely and slowly made his way back to his rooms.

He automatically did his systematic check that there was no one hidden in his rooms, then deftly snagged the two sentient books and burrowed under his covers with them. When he had been little he had liked pretending that doing so could protect him from the monsters under the bed. He felt very small right then.

Penha finally dragged out of him the reasons behind his terror-induced stupor. Draco told them everything, gagging occasionally when he had to gloss over a particular detail here and there for the sake of his stomach and his sanity.

“My father’s a good man, Penha. I know he is, and I have seen it in him. I’d known him to do and say some questionable things before, but… How could he have been a part of this? How could he have stood there and let it happen? How could he _participate_?” he choked out.

“Even good people do horrible things when they feel they have no choice,” was the subdued response.

“I don’t know if I could ever…ever…” he trailed off, fighting the bile in his throat again. “I mean…I’m not always the best person, even when I’m not acting. I can be mean and selfish and an awful grouch. I’ve hexed friends for annoying me even without the pretenses of keeping up my mask. I’ve been raked over the coals enough times by enough people that I don’t think most would call me a good person, but…”

“But you can’t even fathom that depth of evil?” offered Eshe. Shuffling to the side, she closed her pages gently around Draco’s fingers. “You are a far cry from evil, Draco.”

“So is my father! He’s not evil, Eshe, I swear to you.” He knew it was true. Even if he knew some of the things that his father had been party to in the past, he couldn’t shake the image of the man who had clutched at him in shame on the floor of the loft.

“I’m going to tell you something, Draco; something you’ve probably heard before but you need to really think about now,” Eshe began. “All people – everyone in this world – are shades of grey. There is no such thing as black and white. We _all_ fall somewhere along the spectrum that stretches between.

“The most giving of people have their moments of selfishness; the most selfish of people have their moments of selflessness. The nicest of people have their mean streaks; the most awful of people have their moments of kindness. No one is perfect. True evil is questionable; true good is almost impossible.”

She paused, waiting for him to nod before continuing. “Your father might be a good man on the inside, but he has done a great many things wrong in his life. For his actions alone, there are those who would label him evil.” When Draco shifted as if he would protest, she clamped a little tighter on his fingers. “I understand, little one, that you know him better. The fact that you love him does skew your view a little, but I do agree with you in saying that I don’t believe he is evil at heart.

“I cannot know him truly, for I am not bound to him, but from what knowledge you have given me I would definitely put him as a grey on the lighter side of neutral,” she qualified. “Do not forget, though, that he joined the ranks of this Dark Lord willingly. It is possible that he had no idea what he was getting himself into – or that he knew but severely underestimated the result. I am all too well acquainted with the folly of the young to rule that out; you lot like to think you know everything, sometimes.” Her tone was gentle, and while Draco was thankful for the bit of teasing, he wasn’t up to responding to it.

“He would never have enjoyed those things. He would never have done them willingly. There had to be a reason,” Draco argued quietly.

“I’m certain there was,” assured Penha. “ _‘Family is the most important thing in the world; all else – morals included – come second,’_ I believe you quoted to us before. Once he had your mother and then you, I’m sure his need to protect you overrode his own sense of right and wrong. And before that…”

“Perhaps he was a young man, trying to please his father by acting in a manner he thought he had no choice but to adhere to?” Eshe hinted. Draco gave a soft snort, refusing to rise to her bait.

Eshe squeezed his fingers affectionately in response. “It stands to reason that he might have agreed to the principles of this madman in the beginning, but by the time he realized what was going to happen it was too late. It’s easy to say that one wants to get rid of all people of a certain type, but that tune often changes when one is faced with the task of actually doing it.”

Draco sighed, nodding once, then splaying his fingers gently and pressing down in response. “I know. It’s just…” He knew that there would have needed to be a certain amount of allowance before it became a matter of force for his father to do the things he’d heard mentioned, but he had a hard time accepting that and correlating it with his father being a good man.

“It’s hard to imagine anyone as a good or evil person if you look at them as opposites instead of poles on the same spectrum.”

“I can think of one person I would definitely call evil, Eshe,” Draco said evenly.

“Yes, well, perhaps this Dark Lord has a soft spot for his mummy,” the book spat back sarcastically. “Or maybe he’s as close to the evil pole as is humanly possible. I’ve no wish to really find out, to be honest.”

“Me either.” Draco shuddered. He would be perfectly happy to never find out another damn thing about the Dark Lord.

“Good,” Eshe replied primly, settling down as if glad the matter was agreed on.

“I thought there was no such thing as good- OW!” Draco snatched back his fingers, unable to stop the small bark of laughter that bubbled up. He wasn’t really up to laughing just yet, but he didn’t feel quite so desolate as before.

“Little brat,” he heard the book mutter, muffled by the thick comforter. Draco ‘hmm’ed in response, not really ready to let himself really think about the matter. He knew that he would have to accept at one point that while his father was a good man, he wasn’t a saint; for what Draco would like to count, however, his mother was still a saint.

“What about you, Penha?” Draco prodded the unusually silent book, getting a flutter in response. “I mean, Eshe definitely has a mean streak,” a cover could be heard snapping in annoyance, “but I don’t think you have a mean…stitch…in your…binding.” Draco cleared his throat, then scowled when he heard a certain other book snicker.

“Oh, me? Of course I do; it’s just harder to make me angry. And I can be selfish on occasion, like absolutely refusing to be tossed into any manner of luggage without my case, no matter how convenient.” Draco snorted at the reverent way Penha referred to his case.

“You’re barmy.”

“Not so. I am a book and no longer a man. I just have simpler wants.”

“Barmy,” Draco quipped, burying himself in his pillows.

Penha sighed, letting Draco have his moment of childishness. The time would come all too soon for him to leave his childhood behind. Needing to bring up what had occurred to him and Eshe both, Penha hesitantly called, “Draco…”

When Draco turned toward them and tented the blankets so they could speak again, Eshe took over. “You realize that by staying on your family’s path, you too will likely be required to do things that you do not have any wish to do?”

Draco sighed, then nodded once. He gathered the two books to his chest and held them tightly. “I know.” As he lay awake he pondered just how far down the spectrum he would end up being knocked, and offered up a quiet prayer that it wouldn’t be far.


	8. Sacrifice and Regret

** Part Eight: **

At sixteen, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Sacrifice and Regret.

Hunkered down and folded in on himself, Draco could only sit there and shudder as Severus warded the area. It was spring – close to summer – and yet the Forbidden Forest still managed to be both horribly wet and terribly cold. Draco figured it served them right.

The last year had been hell. When his father had been carted away to Azkaban, he had honestly wanted to kill Potter for taking away his only protection from the terrifying sureness of the Mark. The Dark Lord had been quick to single him out after that and task him with the impossible. Or, rather, what he had truly believed to be the impossible.

He had all but shut down, then. His letters to his mother became few and far between no matter how much she wrote him, giving away nothing but what idle chatter he could force from his quill. His godfather had pressed him again and again to let him in, but Draco shut him out every time. Eshe and Penha comforted him when he cried, but he had nearly broken with their nightly pleas for him to seek help from the Light.

He had abandoned everything that he had previously defined as being ‘him.’ He didn’t play Quidditch. He barely studied and his marks were terrible. He sometimes didn’t bathe or change for a few days straight, and his hair fell lank in his face. He refused to continue his strained rivalry with Potter and ignored the Malfoy-Weasley feud to the best of his ability. Everyone else was just too tiring to do more than brush off.

He had abandoned his friends as well. Parkinson and Zabini were too worried – always pressing him for details – and Nott had simply been too disconcerting with the hungry looks he was always aiming Draco’s way. Crabbe and Goyle had been the only ones to still stand by him no matter how irritable he got or how much he tried to push them away; they had even been so loyal as to polyjuice into girls so they could act as inconspicuous lookouts for him. He had barely breathed a word to any of them, even when the elder of the Greengrass girls had tried to comfort him and he’d shrugged her off.

He had begged and threatened, cheated and lied. He had done everything he could to accomplish the impossible task set for him, hoping that even when he ultimately failed that maybe the Dark Lord would spare his mother. His hopes weren’t high, but they were the only thing he had to cling to.

The poisoned wine hadn’t worked. The cursed necklace hadn’t worked. Every time he tried some desperate attempt it backfired and almost put more deaths on his shoulders. Then, the moment finally came when he had finished fixing the Vanishing Cabinet.

He had just stared at it for a while when he first realized it was functional. At one point he had cried. On the one hand, he was relieved; his task was half-complete, and he might yet be able to save his mum. On the other hand, he was devastated; he had been relying on the fact that he was a failure to keep him from _ever_ making it possible for that monster and his followers to enter the school.

The ensuing trip up to the Owlery had seemed to take forever. A random owl had been used to send word to his aunt that the cabinet was ready. His tiny elf owl was sent off to his mother and told to stay there, carrying a scrap with only the words ‘I am done’ scribbled across it. Finally, he had taken his great eagle owl and very gingerly attached the package containing the special case for his book-friends, sending it off toward his home. They had pleaded with him as he fought them into the case, then continued their muffled shouting until the owl had flown away. He had only offered to them that they were the only things he had worth saving. He wasn’t sure if sentient books could cry, but he wouldn’t be surprised if the red velvet lining was now stained with black ink.

The confirmation had come all too quickly. Everything was a blur after that until the first chilling step he took onto the top of the Astronomy Tower. Dumbledore was there, looking weak and fragile; Draco had disarmed him effortlessly. For a moment, it had seemed so easy; two small words and the task would be completed. His family would be redeemed. His mum would be safe. Perhaps the Dark Lord would even be pleased enough to remove his father from Azkaban.

And he couldn’t do it.

The words were there. The moment was perfect. But no matter what, he couldn’t bring himself to say them. He couldn’t shape that magic that he had sacrificed so much for the chance at.

And then the old Headmaster had spoken. His words were feeble, but they had torn into Draco with the force of a hurricane. “You are not a killer,” he had said, and Draco knew it to be true.

It had been so tempting. If he’d had but five more minutes, he’d have been on one of those brooms and flying away with the old man – an old fool who had promised to protect him and his mother when he couldn’t even protect his precious Golden Boy. To be fair, Potter seemed just as adept as Draco was at getting into it over his head.

Still, it seemed a better offer than he’d had before.

But he didn’t have five more minutes. Bellatrix had come bursting out onto the roof, followed by others he barely bothered to register. Greyback he would recognize anywhere, and a whole new wave of guilt flared up at the knowledge of what he’d let loose upon his fellow students.

And then Severus had bounded up the stairs with those long legs that Draco had never known to move so frantically. He’d spared one look for Draco and Draco had known the moment it had clicked in his godfather’s mind what Draco’s task had been. A fraction of a moment later, Severus was leaning forward and shouting the words that had lodged in Draco’s mind, refusing to even make it to his throat. He did what Draco could not so that Draco’s hands would not yet be sullied with the taking of a life.

He had sacrificed his position and his freedom to keep Draco safe.

Watching Dumbledore fall had been a torment of slowed motion. Draco would swear he saw the exact moment that the old Headmaster’s soul had truly left his body and that damned twinkle had faded from his eyes. And then everything exploded into motion.

Severus had grabbed him, jolting him out of his shock. Somehow they had dodged through the melee below without a single singe. Severus half-dragging him, they had run through the halls of Hogwarts as fast as their feet would take them, further and further from the raging battle. At one point, Draco was certain he’d heard Potter behind them, threatening to kill them at the top of his lungs. He was tempted to stop running; death would have been a mercy right then.

Further and further and down and out, they ran faster and farther than Draco had ever thought he could. They jumped headlong into the Forbidden Forest, not even stopping to pay mind to the other predators stalking in the night. Finally, they had both collapsed against the trees, their bodies exhausted and refusing to carry them another inch. Draco had crouched down against one of the trees then, curling in on himself and lacing sobs into his labored pants. Severus had been more practical, setting his mind to casting the necessary spells to protect them through the night.

Somewhere between the grass and the foliage they had been soaked to the core. Draco could feel a physical chill creeping into his bones where a spiritual one had already made residence. He knew his lips were probably already blue, and a small voice in his head reminded him of a time when he was vain enough to care about that. A rustle had him lifting his head to see Severus crouching down in from of him. He didn’t say a word, but Draco felt the tingle of several spells passing over him that he gradually recognized as diagnostic spells.

Even now, Severus was taking care of him.

Draco caught the eyes of the man who had saved him, cracking under their intensity. “I’m so sorry,” he sobbed out, uttering the first words he’d spoken since the tower. It all came rushing at him, tearing him apart all over again. He’d tried to be so strong and so independent, and he’d just cocked it up all over again. He should have listened to Eshe and Penha. He should have gone for help. He should have trusted his mother. He should have trusted his godfather, and believed that the man really did care for him as much as he cared for Severus.

But he hadn’t, and now here they were.

As soon as the tears had begun, Draco felt himself yanked forward. He was half-expecting to be shaken and told to get ahold of himself. What he wasn’t expecting was to be pulled into a tight embrace by the other aloof male figure in his life. A soft rocking motion soothed him even as the oddly gentle hand on his hair caused the sobs to wrack his frame harder. When the shudders finally subsided, Severus turned to lean them against the tree, urging Draco to sleep while he could.

He had given up everything to save his family, and they had sacrificed everything in turn to keep him safe. Regret – for every time he had chosen the wrong path, every time he hadn’t listened to Eshe and Penha, every moment of the last year – wound itself into a vice around his heart. Tighter and tighter it pressed until – finally – like a bubble, it popped, leaving him sapped of the energy to do anything but fall into exhausted slumber.

The last thought before his mind completely shut down was that he wondered if this was how his father had felt once, a very long time ago.


	9. Trust and Faith

** Part Nine: **

At seventeen, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Trust and Faith.

He really had no idea what Vince had been thinking. Maybe he hadn’t been. Maybe the war had just pushed him that much too far and he had finally lost it. Right then, though, as the flames closed in around them, the reasons didn’t seem all that important.

With a cry, Draco struggled to lift Greg just a little higher onto the pile of junk. The wicked animals embodied by the Fiendfyre crackled and licked their way around its base, creeping and crawling their way up toward the two boys. Sweat had begun pouring off of him, but he didn’t even try to tell himself that those weren’t tears rolling down his face. As far as he was concerned, his pride could go shove it right now.

Calling desperately for help he knew wouldn’t come, he tried again to keep one of his remaining best friends from being consumed by the flames. Crabbe and Goyle had been his loyal shadows since they were ten, but it wasn’t until right now that he recognized just how much he had taken them for granted. He had no idea where Vince had disappeared to in the sea of reds and oranges, but he would do his damndest to make certain that he returned the favor and kept Greg safe for as long as he could.

He knew they were going to die, but the flames would have to take _him_ first.

And then he saw it. As many times as he had cursed Potter’s flying ability, he nearly wept in joy at seeing the boy on a broom now. He circled, trying to escape the jaws of the leaping fire-animals. _Hah!_ Draco thought, remembering fourth year when the other boy had outflown a _real_ dragon; these wannabes hadn’t a chance. When Potter finally darted in, Draco’s heart leapt. He held out his hand, grasped the one above him – and slipped.

He couldn’t stop the cry of dismay as their slick hands slid right off of each other. They were too sweaty, and Draco was too heavy while carrying Greg, but he would be damned if he’d let the other boy go. Potter had to swerve away then to avoid a tendril of flame, but Draco knew that he would be back. There were two things that Potter excelled at: flying and saving people. Well, and making Draco look like an idiot, but he hardly figured that counted at the moment.

He knew that Potter would be back.

And then he was there again, with Weasel and Granger right behind him. Draco could hear Weasley shouting something derogatory about them, but in the next moment he and Granger were reaching down to drag Greg onto their broom and Draco would have forgiven any insult for that. He could feel the flames drawing closer as he heaved his unconscious friend up, the nearness burning the skin of his ankles through his trousers.

And then it was his turn. Potter swung in again, and this time Draco grabbed desperately at the hand extended toward him. A hard yank and he was lifted up, scrambling to secure himself behind the other boy. The moment he was on correctly, Potter took off. Draco buried his face in Potter’s back and clung for dear life as they barely escaped with their lives.

He knew they would. The second he had seen Potter, his doubt had fled.

An argument, and then the Golden Trio were distracted from him and Greg. He honestly didn’t want to fight with them again; he’d only made one last ditch effort at capturing Potter out of sheer desperation. But now he knew – knew beyond a shadow of a doubt – that Potter would be the triumphant one this time. He wasn’t certain when the sureness had settled into his soul, but he knew. No matter his crimes, he knew that there would be a better life waiting when the Savior vanquished the Dark Lord. Casting a quick _Ennervate_ to wake his friend, he half-dragged the massive boy behind him as they fled down the hall.

Despite the curses he dodged and the spells that automatically flew from his lips in defense, he began a mantra of a prayer within his mind. He repeated it over and over again, never ceasing. Not even the punch he’d received from the Weasel after Potter had dispatched the Death Eater he’d been trying to convince not to attack him had put him off of it. Even when he stumbled into the Great Hall and pitched himself up against a wall next to Greg, he let it wash over and around and through his mind.

_Please, I beg you, whatever gods there are: help Potter win._

.o0O0o.

It was over. It was finally over. Draco let unfocused eyes roam across the Great Hall as he leaned back against the sturdy stone wall and let it finally sink in. His father was unconscious, minor wounds coupled with mental, physical, and emotional fatigue having caused the man to droop against his son’s shoulder. His mother was battered but alive, resting her head on his other shoulder and holding them both tightly as she gave the occasional weak sob. A turn of his head to the left let him look over his mother’s dirtied blonde curls to exchange a wan smile with Greg, who was tightly holding his own sobbing mother in his burly arms.

Draco closed his eyes as fatigue threatened to seep into every pore in his body, but he was half-certain it would have to wait for the relief currently flooding him to run out. His heart had leapt every time he found another face he recognized, and it sank again every time he had seen a family missing a face he’d come to find familiar. So many had been lost to this cursed war, and there was no describing how it felt to finally know for certain that it was over.

There was a commotion off to his right and he felt his father come to and stiffen. Draco wrapped a consoling arm around him, then slowly opened his eyes to see what the deal was. What he saw was Potter picking his way through the scattered groups, his eyes set on Draco.

Gently touching his mother’s arm in entreaty, he felt her reluctantly release him. He carefully shuffled to his feet, making sure not to jostle either of his parents in the process. They had been through enough. When he looked up, Potter was standing before him, looking nervous.

“Have you come to arrest us?” Draco asked calmly. He knew it was going to happen at some point. Perhaps Potter hadn’t been an Auror before, but he figured that exceptions were possibly granted when one had fought an army of wizards twice his age and defeated a Dark Lord. He would go quietly, taking the punishment that was long overdue. His only request would be that his parents received medical treatment before they were all locked up; he had his own wounds, but that wasn’t as important.

Potter blinked at him in surprise. “Er, no. I…don’t have the authority to do that,” he said haltingly. “Actually, what I came to do could be considered something of the opposite.”

Draco raised one eyebrow warily. He was too tired for much else, and he was partly afraid that old habits would die hard and he’d take his weariness out on the bloke he’d promised himself to stop fighting with.

“I wanted to return this to you,” Potter said, sliding a pale wand out of his sleeve and holding it out to Draco. “And to, ah, thank you for the loan.” He had the audacity to look somewhat sheepish. Draco just blinked at him stupidly; he really couldn’t access anywhere in his mind that had any better suggestions.

“Um…” Potter mumbled out awkwardly, glancing from Draco’s face down to the wand and back again. Snapping himself out of it, Draco reached out and gingerly accepted his wand. He felt a spark of magic when their fingers touched and the wand realigned to Draco, and then warmth thrummed in his hand and worked its way up his arm and through him as his magic and the wand’s greeted each other like old friends. He had to close his eyes and press his lips together to fight the urge to tear up.

“I…thank you, Potter,” he whispered hoarsely. The other boy – man? – heard him though, and offered Draco a smile. Draco returned it with a brilliant one of his own. He laughed slightly when Potter’s wavered in shock. _Well_ , he thought, _I suppose not many people have ever seen me do that before._ It quickly morphed into a grin and he couldn’t suppress the chuckle that fought to escape.

Apparently it was contagious – or they had both gone simultaneously mad – because Potter was then snorting and joining in. As they laughed at whatever private, cosmic joke even they were unaware of, Draco felt the tears of mirth gather around his eyes. None fell, but he had to wipe them nonetheless when the chuckling had finally subsided. They quieted with a sigh, and then the silence set in. Before it could become uncomfortable, though, Potter piped up again.

“I don’t blame you, you know,” Harry said earnestly. Draco’s eyes widened, but it didn’t change the calm, serious look on Potter’s face.

“I’ve done some terrible things, Potter,” Draco returned sadly. “I made some terrible choices.”

“So did we all,” Harry retorted. Draco opened his mouth to protest, but there was a haunted look in the other man’s face that made him close it again. He nodded, lowering his eyes for just a moment before returning them to Potter’s.

“Many of us were children. Most of us were scared. Some of us never had a choice,” Harry continued. Draco’s throat tightened when Potter’s eyes flicked to his parents. Despite what he would have guessed, they didn’t hold accusation; they held sympathy. The sympathy was still there when the green eyes drifted back up to meet Draco’s. “There isn’t a person here that doesn’t know what it means to fight to protect those they care about,” he added firmly, and something struck Draco.

Not a single one of the most dedicated Death Eaters was in the Great Hall.

Certainly there were a few Death Eaters scattered around – and every one of them were clinging to their families as if they needed the contact to breathe. It had been easy to assume before that the others had either been killed or arrested – or had fled. But not even amongst the growing lines of dead and grievously wounded was there a single one of the Dark Lord’s most faithful. Sure, there were a few from the Inner Circle – Pansy’s father, Blaise’s mother, Draco’s own father – but they were all left peacefully to their families for the moment.

Draco managed to choke back the sob that threatened, his eyes filling with tears again. Maybe there was still hope. Maybe they weren’t doomed. Maybe there were those who might see the reasons behind their actions and not just the actions. Maybe his family really would survive this.

Draco nodded once to the man before him, a strained smile stretching his features. “Thank you,” he said, and he didn’t know if he’d ever meant anything quite so fervently as he meant those words right then.

Instead of accepting the praise, Potter just smiled. Then he held out his hand. Draco let one eyebrow tick up in amusement, then slowly reached forward and clasped it.

Neither of them noticed the multitude of eyes glued to their exchange, or the rifts that the simple gesture had healed in its forging.


	10. Strength and Choices

** Part Ten: **

At eighteen, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Strength and Choices.

The trials had come quickly. Not a soul who was involved had wanted to wait and drag out the aftereffects of the war any longer than necessary. The survivors had just wanted to have it done with, adamantly denying the masses of the largely uninvolved public the chance to turn it into a spectacle.

Draco was floored when the verdicts came in. Potter had stepped up and given a truthful, neutral, _public_ account of everything he had known the war to have affected. Many of those who fought for the Light followed suit, setting the precedent that, yes, they too had done terrible and desperate things in the horror that was war. Most of them were pardoned or at most fined – not even the Wizengamot willing to incite the anger of the Wizarding world at large – and it set a precedent for the Death Eater trials to come.

Draco’s mother had been issued a full pardon. Her role had largely been the aiding and abetting of fugitives, and in light of the fact that she had saved Potter’s life there weren’t many who were willing to push that. Secretly Draco wondered if Potter had intentionally helped with that – there was a rumor floating around about him accosting Narcissa and thanking her, even going so far as to kiss her hand and respectfully address her as ‘Lady Malfoy.’

Draco’s father’s sentencing had been both the biggest surprise and the biggest relief. Draco had been worried that he would be sentenced to Azkaban for life or possibly even given the Kiss. Voluntarily, it seemed, Lucius Malfoy had been the first of the Death Eaters to offer a full testimony under Veritaserum. He told every detail he knew from both the first and the second wars, putting names and faces to deeds and admitting to all that he himself had done. There were a few tense moments when Lucius testified against some of the most powerful people in the Ministry, but somehow those listening managed to hold it together.

Draco had been discreetly watching from a doorway as his father had come undone in the courtroom. The man he saw there was a far cry from the act of the devoted servant he’d witnessed in his father’s library what seemed like ages ago. Fear and revulsion were clearly marked on his face as he listed his crimes in detail. His voice broke more than once and years of pent up emotion were released as he was forced by the potion to tell the exact and precise truth. Draco knew he would hear it from Eshe at one point when he relayed that she had been right. Abraxas Malfoy had not been a kind man, and his only son had done everything he could to please him – including joining his Lord. He had done the bare minimum necessary at first, but once Lucius was married and knew Narcissa to be pregnant he did what he could to rise in the ranks and secure what protection he could for him family.

As Azkaban was still being rebuilt in the wake of the defection of the Dementors, Lucius was instead offered a very rigid sentence of fines, house arrest, and weekly Auror interviews for a period of seven years. Draco could have cried right there in front of everyone, and the strained look on his father’s face spoke volumes of the same. Lucius graciously accepted his sentencing, and it started a bit of a flood after that. Many of the other Death Eaters who thought their crimes even lesser offered up their own Veritaserum accounts, putting to rest decades of cold cases and accounting for hundreds of missing people.

When it was Draco’s turn, he worried. In the wake of the war, Albus Dumbledore had risen to new heights of heroism. That Draco was the – somewhat indirect – cause of the man’s death was sure to weigh heavily against him; the years of well-known friction with the Savior heaped on top of that didn’t bode well either. It was a surprise to him when so many of those who stepped up to the stand to testify during his case did not denigrate him. There were a few, naturally, but one by one he also saw many of his Housemates and friends – as well as the Death Eater children from other Houses – step up to vouch for him. His parents gave their own abbreviated accounts, as the court had already heard them speak. And then there had been Potter, saving him again. He reiterated what he had seen of a terrified Draco through the Dark Lord’s eyes, then correlated it to what he knew of the man himself. He spoke of Draco’s unwillingness to identify him when the Snatchers had brought the Golden Trio to the manor. He pressed that it was the sympathetic magic of Draco’s wand that he wielded to strike the final blow.

Ultimately, Draco was offered three options. The first was that he could accept terms similar to his father’s, but for five years. The second was that he could assist with the rebuilding of Hogwarts over the summer and lessen it to three years. The third option – which he was informed was argued forth by Headmistress Minerva McGonagall herself – nearly did him in. He would be expected to assist with the renovations until they were completed and would also join the others his age returning to finish their studies as ‘eighth year’ students; after that, he would still have two years of house arrest, but it was negotiable if he was reported as having good behaviour.

It had been harder than he’d thought to choose the third option. He’d be a fool not to, of course. The idea that he would be allowed to finish his education was a gift beyond imagining. However, the idea of going back to the school that he had helped damage, with people he possibly had a hand in hurting, was enough to make him balk. The summer would be spent mostly amongst his yearmates and other adults who had taken part in the war – all people who would have full rights to use their magic. Once school started, the adults would be gone but then the presumably rasher children would have access to him. He wasn’t certain he had the amount of inner strength he would need in the days to come. With no small amount of trepidation, he signed the deal.

The summer had seemed to drag on forever. It seemed that some of the attackers who couldn’t find human targets had instead taken to just destroying areas of the castle instead. Walls required rebuilding and many ceilings needed to be reinforced. The wards were horribly damaged, but it was mostly professionals who had been called in to see to those with the occasional layman lending a bit of their magical energy in assistance. Many scholars, tutors, and apprentices were called in to assist in their areas of study, such as weatherproofing the roofs and fixing the broken illusion charm on the interior roof of the Great Hall. There were others – mostly students – who were like Draco and serving some sort of court sentence by assisting, but the majority of the work force seemed to be made up of volunteers.

By the end of June, there were some who wondered if Draco _hadn’t_ just volunteered. He had thrown himself into the work, laboring from sunup to sundown and making sure every little thing he did was absolute perfection. He never turned from a task, even when it would get him dirty or would tire him. When he did take notice of the time or his thirst, he would always bring back a few more refreshments for those he was working with. He took pride in the work he did, and it was all for one shining fact: he had chosen this.

For the first time in his life, he had been given options, and all of them would have left him alive and well. He had deliberated and gone for the path of his own choosing. It was terrifying; it was wonderful. In those months, he let go. He smiled more, he laughed often. He’d still sneer on occasion, but it was never cruel – usually it was in response to some particularly filthy task that needed doing. Any taunts he threw had little to no barb in them save for the occasional moment when someone came to try their hand at insulting him. He wasn’t really sure if that was the man he wanted to be or if it would make him happy, but he’d reveled in the simplicity of his life for the moment.

When August finally wound down, the enormous efforts put forth had paid off. There were only a few areas of the school that still needed work, which had helpfully been blocked off so crews could continue without disrupting the students. Students seventeen and older were informed that they could sign up to assist for extra commendations on their records. On the whole, the school looked perfect. Everything had been given a once-over, and there were no longer any areas blocked off to the student body as they had all been cleared out and made safe.

September first was met with an odd twist in Draco’s stomach. This was the second time that he’d had to board the Hogwarts Express without his father to see him off. They’d had their moment back at the manor, but it was something else entirely to watch out the windows until he couldn’t see him anymore. Narcissa had still come with him, fussing and straightening his collar and quietly inquiring if he had remembered everything at least a dozen times as only a mother was able. Draco had smiled and kissed her cheek gently before boarding, and dutifully kept watch of her pale, shining form until she faded from view.

He may have toiled there the whole summer through, but to take that first step through the main doors as a student again had taken a level of courage he had been previously unaware he possessed. Now, he was back in the same dungeon room he had lived in since he was eleven years old. There was a wave of nostalgia as he brushed open his bed-curtains and laid down the small bag he’d kept over his shoulder and began to unload it. Eshe and Penha’s case came first, and he grinned when they both fluttered about as if stretching.

“Fancy seeing this place again,” was the wry greeting he received from Penha. Very solemnly, he turned two of his fingers up in a rude salute, earning him a laugh from Penha and a scoff from Eshe. Draco soon caved, flopping onto his old bed and snuggling down into the pillows.

“I never thought I’d be here again either,” he admitted quietly.

“But you are now. Things might not have happened as you’d wished, but now you have the chance to walk a path of your own choosing,” Penha said brightly.

“Will you?” Eshe asked with a little hesistancy.

Draco breathed in to answer her, then let it out as a huff. He turned to look out at the room, struck by how empty it looked with only three beds instead of five. Vince was gone, killed by the fire he had started; Theo Nott wouldn’t ever be returning due to the sentencing he’d faced for his own crimes. Draco shuddered as remembrance flooded through him, then he quickly shut those memories away in his mind.

It would be hard, he knew, to change the person he had been. Maybe he didn’t have that weight on him that forced his hand, but after so many years there were some habits that were hard to break. Back in the same room at the same school – no matter the renovations – might tempt him to go back to the same ways.

“I will,” he promised quietly, adamantly. There would be many who would revile his family in the times to come, and it was his duty to lessen that as much as possible. He would be the change – the changed person – that he would need to be to show them all. Perhaps it was a different burden of familial duty that he would be carrying now, but he gladly shouldered it this time. The fardels borne by him in the years before had given him the strength to stand up under this one.

He’d made his choices, and now he would live them.


	11. Scars

** Part Eleven: **

At eighteen, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Scars.

It was a curious thing. At one point in his life, Draco loved it when people looked at him. To be honest, he was still a glutton for attention. However, when people looked at him now, Draco couldn’t help but feel the small prick of fear that they could see right through his shirt.

It wasn’t so bad in the mornings when he only had to share the showers with Greg and Blaise. They both also bore the hideous remains of the Dark Mark, so he knew they would never intentionally stare at his. It was when he looked himself in the mirror and saw the faded black tattoo that the first bout of shame would begin.

During the rebuilding, he had been very careful. No matter how hot or dirty it got while he was working, he’d refused to remove his shirt or even roll up his sleeves. It didn’t matter so much that most everyone there already knew he had the Mark – they couldn’t see it. Since the start of the year, though, he had become increasingly nervous about it.

It didn’t matter that he hadn’t wanted it. It didn’t matter that he regretted it. What mattered was that he _did_ have it, and he was terrified of the judgments that would pass the moment anyone set eyes upon it.

He wanted to forget about it. He wanted to pretend it didn’t exist. In those few precious moments between sleep and grooming, he was able to put it out of his mind. And then he would see himself in the mirror, and the shame would roll down over him and encase him tightly until he could once again disappear into the thoughtlessness of sleep.

Almost as bad, though, were the three thin lines that spanned his chest in horizontal slashes. They were almost unnoticeable against his pale skin, but his eyes could always pick them out instantly – even in dim light. If anyone else saw those marks, they would have no idea what had caused them. Or, rather, _one_ person would know. And one ghost. And Draco knew.

Guilt weighed on him. Despite the words Potter had said to him at the end of the war, he couldn’t help but think that the man must blame him to some extent. Every time he felt something brush those three strips of curiously dulled sensation, he would be brought back to that night in the third floor girls’ washroom.

He avoided the place as much as possible when making his way through the halls now. He’d become a bit of an expert on the layout of Hogwarts and all its many shortcuts during the months he’d spent helping to rebuild the school. When he caught himself wandering, though, that was one of the four places he found his feet unconsciously taking him. The Astronomy Tower, the Room of Requirement, and Severus’s old office were the other three places his subconscious mind loved to torment him with.

He’d managed to work up to visiting Myrtle again, with the urging of Penha. Thinking back, he realized how lonely the whiny ghost girl often seemed to be. Sometimes he’d bring along with him something from the kitchens that the House Elves said the ghost would enjoy. He laughed when she still tried to peek in on him in the loo, making bawdy jokes he’d never repeat to anyone else until she shrieked and fled. As much as he could stand her and be amused by her presence, he nevertheless couldn’t bring himself to enter her domain.

After a couple months back, he had noticed a terrible nervous tic he’d developed. Whenever he became uncomfortable – especially when it was a moment that pressed in on his cocoon of guilt – he would subtly reach over and tug at the edge of his left wrist-cuff. Blaise – bless and curse him – had mentioned it in a murmur to him one afternoon, and then he was horrified to find how many times he caught himself doing it throughout the rest of the day.

He didn’t really know why he did it. Was it to make sure that his sleeve was there? Down and covering his forearm? That would be pointless if it still drew attention to the arm anyway, but that was all he could think of. He didn’t _want_ attention called to where the faded tattoo remained – he didn’t _want_ people to look at it. He had never been self-conscious about his body before, and it was a disconcerting thing to deal with now.

It was nearly a week after that when he noticed something strange. Rather, the thing he noticed was common enough, but the epiphany he had about it was rather strange: Potter hated his scar.

He’d been sitting in the library and staring at the most boring history of magic text to date – and given the ones he’s had to read his first six years, that was saying something – when movement from the table across the way caught his eye. Weasley was telling some wild, whispered story and waving his arms all around, making a few of the friends surrounding him clasp hands tightly over their mouths to keep from laughing and garnering the unwanted attention of Madam Pince. And then it happened: Potter surreptitiously reached up and tugged at a piece of his wild hair so that it covered his scar. A few from the group glanced over at the action, their eyes lingering for a moment on the spot before turning back to the story.

Draco had made fun of Potter’s scar for years. Part of it, yes, was because he’d been told to pick at the other boy to set up pretenses. The other, he would admit, was because the speccy git really did know how to crawl under his skin and mentioning the scar was a rather surefire way to tick him off. ‘Scarhead,’ he’d called him, again and again.

Draco winced, rubbing his arm and feeling his robes slide over his chest.

He kept a quiet watch over Potter for the next few days while attempting to break himself of his own scar-induced habit. Whenever Potter was uncomfortable – and at any mention of the war – he’d reach up and give a little tug at the hair there, as if making sure it was in place. He was always raking his hands through his hair – turning the natural bird’s nest into a wild mess even an animal would refuse to live in – but every time he’d realized that he’d pushed his hair back he would quickly finger-comb it forward again to cover his forehead, patting down the shaggy black fringe as if in relief.

Draco reached for Penha one night, cracking open the book to jot his thoughts down on the pages. Silencing charms were useful, yes, but not the greatest idea when one had a nosy roommate who knew how to cancel them. “ _Penha?_ ” he wrote, adding little flourishes to the letters until the book responded.

“ _Yes, child?_ ” appeared below his handiwork after a few long moments.

“I think you took so long just to see how fancy I’d make it,” he quipped in a low mutter, then continued on the page, “ _The world has ended: I think I have something in common with Potter._ ”

He heard what sounded suspiciously like a snicker from the book, then words began to appear. “ _Oh? What is this now? And does this mean you won’t whine about him all the time anymore?_ ” the book teased back.

“ _I do not whine, and most certainly not about him, thank you very kindly._ ” He scowled down at the book in his lap as he heard another snickering noise. “ _I hate you. But onto my dilemma._ ”

“ _You don’t hate me._ ” Of course the book knew that, connected as they were. Draco snorted.

“ _Hush._ ”

“ _I didn’t say anything._ ”

“ _He’s ashamed of his scar._ ” Draco figured that perhaps _that_ would silence the gently teasing book.

Penha didn’t respond for a few moments, then slowly filled in the words, “ _Go on._ ”

“ _You know I’ve been hiding mine. The Mark and the one from that spell that Potter cast at me in sixth year – Sectum-something. Well, Blaise pointed out that I’d started tugging at my sleeve when I got nervous about the Mark. And then I noticed I would also trace the scars on my chest when I think about_ ,” he paused, trying to figure out exactly what he would think about at those points, then gave up and added, “ _the past._ ” It was vague, but it worked.

“ _Potter seems to try to keep his scar covered all the time. When people start mentioning the war, he tugs at the hair in front of it to make sure it’s hidden. It’s just about as ridiculous as me tugging on my sleeve to get people to not see the Mark, but I think it’s just as unconscious of a gesture._ ” Draco squirmed uncomfortably at the thought, biting his lip.

“ _This seems to bother you_ ,” was all that Penha replied.

“ _Well, I suppose it might shock a person to realize that Golden Boy has anything in common with us mere mortals._ ” Draco knew that wasn’t it, really. He didn’t often think of the other man in such terms anymore – not after the trials, to be honest. He was rather certain that Penha would call him on it, too – the book never let him get away with such things.

“ _That isn’t it, and you know it. Why do you bother lying to me, child?_ ” Draco could feel the book’s exasperated amusement tinge along the whisper of their bond.

“ _Because you and Eshe are the only ones who won’t let me get away with it._ ” Draco sighed, lightly tapping the feather of his quill against his cheek. It took him awhile to figure out exactly what bothered him about the scenario; luckily, Penha was a patient being. “ _I guess…I suppose it’s that there’s nothing for him to be ashamed of. Why would he want to cover the scar? I’ve gathered that he doesn’t really like the attention, but people recognize him well enough even without it being visible. And he can’t honestly be vain, dressing as he does._ ” Draco shook his head slightly at the thought of Potter’s ghastly wardrobe.

“ _Well…think about why you hide your own scars – shame, guilt, and so on. Is there a chance he might feel that too?_ ” was the equitable reply.

“ _Of course not. He’s the hero in this. His scars are ‘marks of valor’ and all that rot._ ”

“ _You believe there is no reason at all that he might feel guilt? Try thinking like him, for once_ ,” the sentient book prompted.“ _You know him better than what you like to admit._ ”

Draco glared at the book, grumbling out a half-formed retort. He had a feeling that Penha _knew_ what he wanted Draco to say, but apparently the book wasn’t going to _tell_ him. While he understood that the books sometimes did that to get him to make his own connections, he still found it rather irritating while in the thick of it. Taking a moment, he set his quill down and closed his eyes. Bracing his fingers against his temples, he mulled over the idea.

_Potter keeps the scar covered whenever possible, but makes doubly certain it is concealed at every mention of the war. Why would that make him ashamed?_ he thought. _Go back to the beginning, then – Potter got the scar from the Dark Lord. But that can’t be it; there has to be more. Well…his parents were killed when he was given the scar, but could that really be it? No, it’s something more recent – he wasn’t so bothered before._ Draco scowled, but dutifully kept at it. It was difficult keeping his impatience in check, but the circular logic and dead ends had to be connected somewhere, he knew.

_If it’s a nervous tic that he didn’t have before sixth year…then maybe it began during the war. It isn’t a reminder of the war – can’t be, he had it for years before then. A reminder of the Dark Lord? No one would care that Potter bears a scar from him, so I can’t think even he would._

_Wait._ Draco jolted as he caught a fleeting thought, shifting upright. Splaying his fingers out in front of him, he mapped it in his mental space. _The Dark Lord said something about a link – a connection. He sent things to Potter along it – taunts, images, memories… Memories of him torturing, killing._

_Is it the memories that haunt him? Yes! Yes…but that’s not it. There’s more, I know it…_ Draco knit his brows together, searching for that one last piece to the puzzle. _Penha said to think like him for a moment. How does Potter think? ‘Everything should be good.’ Righteous, maybe. He wants to save everyone._

With a start, Draco found his answer. Scrabbling for his quill, he barely remembered to write his conclusion instead of speaking it aloud.

“ _I know what it is!_ ” he scratched out quickly, not even minding how the letters squished together in his haste.

“ _Oh? What is it, then? Why would Harry Potter be ashamed of his scar?_ ”

“ _It isn’t the scar – not really, anyway. It’s what the scar represents. He tries to save everybody – Hell, he even saved me – more than once. He’s ashamed of all the people he couldn’t save – all the people that You-Know-Who and the other Death Eaters tortured and killed. It was the Dark Lord who gave him the scar, so it reminds Potter of everything the madman did. In addition, there were the things that were sent through a bond – possibly tied to the scar? – that would have haunted Potter with the fact that people were hurting and he wasn’t able to do anything to stop it._

“ _He blames himself. He blames himself for everything._ ” At that revelation, Draco’s eyes grew round. His chest felt tighter and tighter the more he thought about it until it hurt to breathe.

How would it feel to try so hard, but when you finally succeed you know that there is no real victory in it? How would it feel to be haunted by the people who got hurt because you weren’t strong enough or fast enough or brave enough? How would it feel if every time someone looked at you it reminded you of a past that holds so much pain?

Draco had a feeling he knew exactly what it would feel like.

They both had other scars. For Draco, there was the one up his arm from that incident with the hippogriff in third year as well as many smaller ones from various accidents over the course of his life. Draco knew that Potter had a myriad of other little scars from when he’d glimpsed him shirtless during the rebuilding.

But those scars didn’t matter. They didn’t mean anything. The scars they were ashamed of weren’t just marks on their skin – they were marks on their minds and souls. The physical scars didn’t matter – what mattered were the scars that were left where no one else could see them.

“ _It’s the scars on the inside_ ,” was the last bit distractedly scrawled by Draco before he set the book aside. After a few moments he heard the muffled thump of Penha closing himself, leaving him to his thoughts. Leaning back against his pillows, Draco closed his eyes and let his revelation wash over him, swirling around all the dents and nicks in his mind, discovering them all over again. He was left feeling drained, and when he stood on the verge of slipping into sleep he wondered if maybe someday they would all heal.

It still took him two weeks to break himself of tugging on his sleeve.


	12. Redemption

** Part Twelve: **

At twenty-one, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Redemption.

There was a time when Draco might have agreed with anyone who said that being trapped in his enormous home was not a very harsh punishment. They, obviously, had never dealt with a stir-crazy Lucius Malfoy and his exasperated helpmeet. They obviously had also never been stuck within the same confining walls as those two for months on end.

There were always those that Draco had met who had said that they would love to have enough money that they would never need to leave home, where they could just relax all day. After the second month Draco wanted to speak with each and every one of them and tell them what a load of shit that was. It hadn’t taken overly long to become more than a little bored, and after more than a year and a half Draco was at his wits’ end.

He had studied every scrap of writing in the manor, exhausted himself flying over the grounds, identified every single flower in the gardens, paced every single hall at least thrice, and had learned more than he ever cared to know about his bloodline from the animated portraits scattered around. He was limited on what he could keep in the Potions lab downstairs, so even that pastime had worn thin after awhile. Penha and Eshe were a godsend, as per usual, but he was beginning to wonder if he was starting to drive the ever-patient books up a wall.

As much as he loved his parents, there was only so much time in a day that he could stand to be glued to either of them. They still shared most meals together, but it wasn’t often that he would pop in for a chat – it wasn’t like there was much of anything new to talk about. A couple of his friends had dropped by on occasion, but most were stuck in sentences much like his own. All in all, save for the gossip that his mother would bring back from her outings, there wasn’t much exciting happening in his life.

The only thing that had managed to distract him for any length of time had been a project of mapping the spells found in the books he had around him. It was interesting to see how one spell might be connected to two other spells that had little to do with one another, and then also to a potion-making technique that was as far off that line of thinking as one could get. One of the rooms in the manor had become his testing site for when he tried to whittle each wand movement and spell component down to its basest essence – resulting in a handful of explosions and a lingering smell of lilac that he wasn’t sure how to eradicate. Magical theory had always been a fascination, but even that could only take up so much of his day.

It was important to him that he keep busy, though. If he didn’t have his mind full of something, then all too often he would be brought back into the past. Memories would spring up to haunt him until he found some distraction to occupy that mental space instead. Time, he mused, was the only thing that would gradually make the memories fade.

Other than his mother’s information that she’d gleaned from her visits with other society matrons, there was one other connection that Draco had found to the outside world: the papers. He had a subscription to each of the Wizarding papers for as often as they delivered – news and gossip rags alike. They gave him a small window to the outside world, and he devoured each of them from cover to cover. Most of them he knew to take with a grain of salt, having possibly assisted Rita Skeeter in a handful of her ignominious pursuits of a story, but he still took a secret pleasure at the wild ideations ventured about lives of others.

It was one day when he was reaching the back of the _Prophet_ that he took a chance to see what was in the classifieds. They were generally boring, but he could entertain himself for awhile imagining the people who would apply for them. That day, though, one stood out.

It wasn’t so much an ad as a plea for help. In the wake of the war, several organizations had stepped in to help repair the damage to the Wizarding world; most of them had quieted down after a year or so when the most visible damage had been handled. Draco hadn’t heard much of them for awhile. This was one of the few non-profit organizations that had cropped up and apparently still had its hands full.

It needed staff. It needed donations. It would take anything that people were willing to give. It didn’t have the money to pay workers, but was desperately asking for any volunteers who would lend a hand.

Draco was curious as to why they were so desperate.

He would admit, later, that it was this simple curiosity about something different that made him ask his mother to help him dig up any information there was about the organization. Why were they so desperate? Why couldn’t they just join their remaining forces with one of the other groups doing the same thing? What was there still to be done that needed the handling of a whole organization? What he found changed everything.

The Wizards Advocating Restoration Foundation was the only organization still helping those in need after the war – every other group had dissipated or focused their resources elsewhere. The damage that had been done to the public sector had been fully repaired, but there were still so many who had lost their homes, businesses, and sellable goods to the fighting. There were entire families that had nothing left and no way to get back on track; and, worse yet, there were countless children – both Wizarding _and_ Muggle – who had lost their families to the raids.

They had initially had more than a hundred employees with several hundred volunteers assisting them. Donations had been constant – money, goods, supplies. They had been a driving force behind the reparation of much of the public sector, hoping to boost morale and save the economy from collapse. The problem was that as soon as people began to realize that anything that affected them was fixed, they saw no need to keep helping. Volunteers dwindled, as did donations. Workers had to be laid off because there wasn’t enough money to pay them _and_ help the community. They were left with little more than dust, now, with still so many people in need.

Draco, to understate it, was furious.

He remembered the days when he had assisted in the rebuilding of Hogwarts – the determination and compassion that many of the volunteers had expressed. He remembered how wonderful it had felt to know that he was finally helping and not hurting, rebuilding and _building_ instead of destroying. It was difficult for him to think that so many had already forgotten the horrors that had been – the images that still haunted his nightmares.

That night, he stayed up late into the night, reviewing and adding revisions to the constitution that he’d found for the organization, bouncing ideas off of Penha and Eshe as he went. The next day, he resolved, he would speak to his parents.

.o0O0o.

It had taken Draco awhile to find his mother. She seemed to be in constant motion, as if seeking to balance the sedentary states of her husband and son. She had taken on a whole new slew of hobbies in their newfound freedom, picking them up and discarding them at various intervals. Draco knew she was currently planning his wedding, but other than that he wasn’t certain.

After finally giving in and calling up a House Elf, he was finally able to find her in one of the sunny attic rooms, working on a painting that blotchily reminded him of a view of the gardens. “Mother? A word, if you’re not busy?”

“Of course not, darling. I always have time for you,” she said sweetly, carefully reaching for her wand to clean her hands of stray paint flecks. Draco debated telling her about the slash of bluish-green across her nose, but grinned mentally and kept quiet. “Now then, what was it you wanted to talk about?”

“You recall that organization I asked for your help in researching?” Her slow nod prompted him to continue. “There are a few things that I’ve put together regarding that, and I was hoping for your input.” Bringing forth a sheaf of papers, he motioned toward a nearby table before spreading them.

It took most of the afternoon, with Narcissa picking here and there at various details, but in the end Draco knew he had his staunchest supporter. He hadn’t really doubted that – she had always been that way for him. Watching her light up in a flurry over the various documents, though, had made him appreciate it all the more. She supported him because she loved him, yes, but also because she believed in his efforts no matter how out of the blue they were.

It wasn’t quite dark when they finished up their proposal. Narcissa was beaming, high society pretenses left behind in the soothing comfort of her relaxing space, with only her son for company. Draco was exhausted and left wondering just how the woman kept up with all of it. As much as he respected her, though, it didn’t stop him from pulling a face at her when she airily mentioned his next step. “You have to talk to _him_ now, you know.” Her smirk did nothing to appease him.

Sighing, Draco gathered together the final draft that they had constructed. Narcissa helpfully called up a House Elf to take the rest of the papers to Draco’s recently acquired study, wanting to keep them for reference if necessary. At his mother’s wickedly sweet call wishing him good luck, he deigned to turn and let her know that she had paint on her nose. He laughed as he ducked out, hearing her behind him muttering something he was certain was more than unladylike.

It hadn’t been difficult to locate his father. He was in his study, as he often was. Sometimes he would write to various colleagues and old friends, discussing the new politics and laws that were cropping up where he couldn’t get at them himself. More often, though, he was revising the properties, businesses, and vaults belonging within the domain of the Black and Malfoy families. Draco was starting to wonder if the man had finally gone mad and had named every galleon they owned from the doting way he poured over the records.

Draco wandered in, making sure to drag his toes a little with every step on the plush rug so as to not startle the man. When Lucius still didn’t look up from his reading, Draco sat noisily in one of the comfortable leather chairs opposite his desk. When he _still_ didn’t make a motion to show he’d noticed and kept on reading, Draco raised an eyebrow in surprise. That was unlike his father, to say the least. Taking a breath to attempt clearing his throat for attention, he was stalled by his father slowly raising one index finger.

So he _had_ noticed him.

After a few more moments during which Draco was uncertain whether to be offended or amused, Lucius finally jotted down a quick note on a scrap beside his ledger and looked up. His smile for his son was small and tired, but Draco still liked the look of a smile on his face. “Apologies; I was in the middle of a calculation. Was there something you wished to discuss?”

Draco shot him an amused half-grin before handing over his sheaf of parchment. If he were truthful, he was dreadfully nervous. He knew his father regretted his actions during the war terribly. He had donated quite a hefty sum to the various charities even on top of the fines issued to them, but Draco was honestly uncertain if that was out of sincere goodwill or in an attempt to drag the Malfoy name out of the gutter. Or, perhaps, a combination of the two, knowing his father.

Draco began a very tentative introduction of his plan, citing both his personal wishes as well as favourable outcomes that he had thought of. Lucius’s brow was furrowed as he shuffled through the stack, reading and occasionally nodding at Draco’s words to show he was still paying attention. Draco ran out of words before his father ran out of parchment, so he just sat back and tried not to fidget like a boy much younger while the elder man read. When Lucius was finished with his perusal, he let out a large sigh.

Draco wasn’t certain what to make of the measuring look that Lucius gave him. It didn’t look like disappointment or reproach, but neither did it look like happiness or pride. “What you have presented to me has shown me one glaring error on my part, my son,” Lucius finally said in that deep, quiet voice of his that could still catch the attention of everyone near him.

Draco swallowed, hoping it hadn’t been too noticeable. “And what would that be, Father?” He steeled himself for the denial that he was certain was coming.

“In all of our discussions, I have apparently never taught you how to run a business.” Draco blinked for a moment, letting a modicum of his confusion show at that sentence. “You see here, in paragraph three on page fifteen, the amount you mentioned is quite disproportionate.” Lucius then brought out a clean sheet of parchment, marking down numbers and words as he stood over his desk and lectured. Draco leaned forward, trying to digest the information while ascertaining just what his father meant by it.

A half an hour later, he realized that his father was rewriting the monetary proposals for the entire draft, even as he taught the reasons behind each revision. Draco couldn’t keep the smile that bloomed across his face when he realized the implications of such, even through the following dinner.

.o0O0o.

After consulting with their solicitors, they finally deemed Draco’s proposal to be sound. Reluctant fingers tied the final incarnation of the offer to the leg of Draco’s old eagle owl. He fretted for nearly a week following that, awaiting a response that could not come faster. His mother assured him that they were probably fact-checking with their own solicitors, but it was difficult to shake the idea that they had pitched the whole thing in the bin as soon as they had seen the Malfoy crest.

And then there was a knock on their door.

Anastasia Reinhardt was a tired-looking witch, the lines of stress and sorrow making her look easily twice her age. When they had invited her in, she said that she had simply wanted to shake the hand of the man who had possibly saved so many people with the offer they had received, and that they were more than ready to accept the terms and revisions. Draco was shaken at her words, hastily adding on that his parents were as much to thank as he was. He was well-acquainted with attention, yes, but he had never had so much _gratefulness_ aimed in his direction. He was flustered, to say the least.

“Oh, we pitched in a bit, but it was all Draco’s idea,” Narcissa added, smiling at her son. Draco hadn’t noticed before that the new light in her eyes when she looked at him was pride, and when his father wrapped a careful arm around her and gave a slow nod of agreement, he saw the sentiment reflected there as well. It was all he could do to keep his throat from closing up, and he quickly turned to their guest and launched into the objectives he had thought of establishing.

.o0O0o.

The next several months were a whirlwind of activity. Draco got good use out of his new study, filing papers and interviewing and signing off on work orders. Ana’s head was often hovering in the green flames of his fireplace, filling him in about what was going on at the home base of the organization. Larger advertisements had been placed in several newspapers, a commercial and interview had been aired on the Wizarding Wireless Network, and a slowly growing number of volunteers had begun spreading awareness by word of mouth. Companies had been contacted and affiliated, offering discounted work when they realized just what was needed. Businesses sent owls asking for both temporary and permanent workers, realizing that they could often find people quicker that way than an ad in the classifieds. Several of Draco’s friends – as well as more distant friends of the family – contacted him asking about it when they heard a whisper about his efforts.

There was now temporary housing in Wizarding tents for those who had been displaced, and a bathing house and soup kitchen to help keep them clean and fed. Adults were encouraged to find work where they could, and the organization helped them to do so as much as possible, matching skillsets with jobs. Older children were provided with the necessary tuition to attend Hogwarts, and younger children were given access to tutors to provide their primary education. Houses and townhomes were being constructed to provide living spaces for those whose homes had been demolished.

Draco was made a co-chair on the Board, helping to shape the decisions every step of the way. It was overwhelming at times, but he did the best that he could. It was frustrating when he couldn’t go and check on various projects himself, but he was careful to obey the terms of his house arrest. He had promised several of the others that on his first day out he would be sure to at least stop by the office to see them all in action. Nevertheless, the _only_ thing limiting his involvement were the walls surrounding him, and that was enough to fill him with a certain amount of joy.

Despite how busy he was, he still always made a little time each day to discuss his thoughts and activities with his book-friends. When he was frustrated, they centered him; when he was happy, they shared in his mirth and allowed him freer expression of it than he had with anyone else.

“It is good to see you like this, child. You look more… _alive_ , more than you have in a long time,” Penha’s content voice mentioned to him one evening.

“I feel that way,” Draco replied with a smile that stretched his face.

“Not so bored anymore, are you?” Eshe teased. Draco just blinked at her for a second.

He was momentarily struck with the thought: Was it all just a distraction? Quickly, though, the rational part of his mind brought forth too many moments of true contentedness that he knew it wasn’t so. It did keep him tremendously busy, and he didn’t have much time for idle thought anymore. He still had the occasional nightmare, but he wasn’t haunted daily. Now that he thought about it, though, the images that came to him when he did think about the past now had lost a certain edge.

_I’m not just regretting. I’m doing something about it. I’m giving back._ Draco smiled. True, it wasn’t a complete absolution of himself; there was no way to completely atone for the marks that he had left. But this wasn’t merely atoning – he wasn’t doing this for himself. He wasn’t doing this just because he thought he had to or because he was repentant – he was doing it because it was the right thing to do. He was using what haunted him to fuel him and truly striving to make a difference about it. It didn’t feel like a punishment or a chore.

It felt good.

“Not often,” he teased back at Eshe, knowing from the happy thrumming of their bond that the book had caught his contemplation.

.o0O0o.

On his first day of freedom, Draco rolled up his sleeves and helped build a house. 


	13. Marriage

** Part Thirteen: **

At twenty-two, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Marriage.

It had begun back in his eighth year. He knew that his parents had begun researching matches for him from the moment he had been conceived, but it was then that they finally let him in on any of it. He knew that blood pedigree had something to do with it, as well as distance from his own family line so that there was no cause for worry about having genetics that were too similar. Magical power was likely another factor in the process. He knew that previous Malfoys had always prided themselves on their pale features so that was also likely an issue, and there was no question they would pick an attractive candidate.

His mother had assured him that they would also try to find someone who would suit him as a partner. The gossip that the society matrons traded wasn’t just for amusement – it was an underhanded way of boasting one’s own children and learning about the tendencies and habits of the children from other families. Draco trusted that they would do well by him and make choices that would be to his benefit.

He had never really been much interested in dating. Most girls were rather boring in his mind, to be honest. Their coy looks and gentle invitations made him want to roll his eyes and groan – and not in want. Pansy was the exception, so while he felt no attraction toward her he had gladly conspired with her to keep away the mindless flirtation of others. If people had wanted to believe that he and Pansy were an item and not just close friends, well, they were free to their beliefs.

Halfway through eighth year he had received a letter from his mother saying that they had narrowed down their approved choices to three girls and that Draco was to choose from there. One was an eighth year Slytherin girl who Draco found exceptionally boring; she was one of those people who was intelligent, and yet was far too silly to do anything useful with it. Another was an eighth year Ravenclaw, and while she was both intelligent and interesting, she refused to acknowledge Draco’s existence and was less than a fan of former Death Eaters. The third was a seventh year Slytherin whom Draco didn’t know all that well.

He knew her elder sister Daphne – was tentatively friends with her even – but he had never heard the other girl so much as squeak. He had surreptitiously observed her for awhile after receiving the letter, taking note of her shy demeanor and quiet poise. She was graceful and lovely, and managed to pull off a gentle beauty without the excessiveness that many other girls seemed to engage in. When he heard her speak, her words were usually slow and deliberate, as if weighing each one before letting it be heard. She had a wry wit and a tinkling laugh that made him smile to hear it. When he prodded Pansy, he was able to find out from the gossip-queen that the girl was also rather intelligent and generally got excellent marks unless she had to speak up.

Draco easily made his choice.

He had approached her and begun a tentative courtship soon after, slowly introducing himself into her life. Their conversations had been pleasant, if light, but he’d had no worries that it was simply because she was so shy. When the end of the school year had come and they were both due to graduate, it was agreed betwixt both them and their parents that it was a good match.

It took another year for the negotiations to be made. Dowry and bride-price were a common matter for families like theirs, and Draco was certain his father was rather enjoying the back-and-forth. The Greengrasses hadn’t fallen nearly so much as the Malfoys had, so that was a point against them. The Malfoys – now also true heirs to the Oldest and Most Noble House of Black – were wealthier with longer bloodlines, which was a point in their favor. Draco was almost glad to be separate from the proceedings, though he knew his father would discuss it with him if he’d asked. There was a small bit of him that dreaded having to do such a thing for his own future children.

When he was twenty, the solicitors ran between the two homes to makes sure that everything was set and signed properly. Draco and Astoria were then publicly announced as engaged. Reporters had been allowed to photograph them on the Malfoys’ front stoop, seeing as Astoria could travel and Draco was still restrained.

The next two years, Draco heard little more about the marriage-to-be. His mother was reveling in the preparations, for which he very secretly found her absolutely barmy. Every now and again she would ask for his opinion on something he would generally find inane, but he did his best to accommodate. On occasion, she would accost him to hold swatches of color or fabric up against him, and he’d quietly acquiesce to her madness whilst she debated in half-formed sentences. He was fairly certain that she was being assisted by the esteemed Mrs. Greengrass – and possibly by Astoria herself – so he had no qualms about running in the other direction as soon as he saw the plans laid out on the table.

Eventually, though, it had finally started to become a reality. Once he had his freedom, he was expected to occasionally pay a visit to the Greengrass family or take Astoria out to some function. They would go out to dinner every now and again – both letting the public see them as well as having a bit of time to speak with just the two of them. Draco was pleased to find that they were able to hold splendid conversation even after the interval they’d spent apart, and Astoria was a bit braver in her efforts.

Then the invitations had been sent and Draco was getting notes and well-wishes from friends of the family the world over. An area of the manor grounds was specially groomed for the occasion, and decorators were constantly putting in or tweaking something-or-other for months before the event itself.

A month before the proceedings, Draco finally began to get nervous. He was about to tie himself to someone else in matrimony for the rest of his life. He would take her to his bed. She would bear his children. They would raise those children together. They would grow old together. At once it filled him with anticipation and terror.

Penha had grumbled to him from the moment he had mentioned the first letter, but Draco had rolled his eyes and ignored the book’s comments. He had ascertained early on that the book simply didn’t seem to understand the appeal of an arranged marriage. He was constantly going on about how Draco felt toward Astoria, and for the life of him Draco couldn’t figure out exactly what was wrong with it.

The night before the big day, they had finally blown up at each other.

“She is nice! I like her! What more do you want from me?” Draco snarled out.

“Nice?! Like?! Draco, child, you are getting _married_. You are meant to spend your life with this person!” Penha chastised back.

“And I will! What is your issue with this? You’ve heard our conversations – we’re a good match!” He was about ready to pull his hair out, but managed to refrain; baldness at twenty-two might be a possible deal-breaker on the wedding contract.

“A good match!” Penha spat out. “You would make good friends, perhaps.”

“Yes, exactly! We will get along well, and I don’t understand why that bothers you,” Draco cried helplessly.

“But you do not _love_ her, Draco!” the book returned, sounding as if it was the most obvious conclusion in the world.

“What does that matter?” When Penha just spluttered and spit out a few pages in frustration, Draco continued. “Father didn’t love Mother when they were first wed; they were simply deemed a decent match. It was in the years following that they fell in love with each other. I can hope for that, but a lasting friendship is just as well if not.”

“Draco, are you even attracted to this girl? Do you want her? Is she someone that you would wish to take to your bed otherwise?” Penha pleaded, trying a different tactic in his attempt to get his charge to listen.

“Well… She’s very lovely.” Draco glared when he heard a snort. “I’ve never really had a wish to take a woman to my bed, for whatever reason; they just haven’t interested me,” he added truthfully, getting angry again when Penha just slammed himself spine-first onto the writing desk and let his pages splay out.

“Child…do you even hear yourself?” he asked as if pained.

“My hearing is just fine! Just-…Just listen to me, okay, you overstuffed romance novel?” Draco pleaded back. “Perhaps this isn’t love, and perhaps I won’t find it. I’ve certainly never had much of an inclination for it before now anyway. What this means to me is a continuation of my family. I will marry her, and she will be the mother of my child or children. Even if I never love Astoria in the romantic way you are so bothered over, I will love him or her or – hopefully – them more than anything in this world. She is my chance to be a father.

“I need to do this, Penha. Please. Not just for my family, but for _myself_.” He looked at the book tiredly, hoping it would understand.

“Why now? Why her? You say you need to, but there is no reason that you could not wait and fall in love with someone before committing to such a union. The love of one’s progeny is a great thing to aspire to have, but how can you enter into such a thing as marriage knowing that you will never know what it is like to be the other half to a whole – to be complete? Is that what you want, Draco?”

“Want has nothing to do with this.” It wasn’t exactly a lie. Draco really wasn’t certain what he wanted, other than to make a good match for the sake of his family. He knew that one day he wanted to be a father. He knew that he wanted to make his parents proud. That was all he knew, though.

“In a matter such as this, want should play a rather large role, child.”

“I have no preference of want. All I know is what is needed. I need to make a good marriage for the sake of my family. I need to marry a woman who is young and healthy and can carry at least one child to term. I need for her to be within the confines set forth by my echelon of society, but far enough from me by blood to be certain our children are safe from defect. I need to do this now, because if I wait then every eligible woman will already be claimed and I will never have my chance.”

“But–” Penha made to argue again, but Draco interrupted him.

“Penha, I am _going_ to do this. Please, I beg of you, my friend, share in my joy of this day and lend nothing more to my own anxiousness. Tomorrow will be one of the biggest days of my life, and I would like to have the support of the people I hold most dear. You and Eshe are so important to me – please don’t make me have to exclude you.” He was pleading and on the verge of tears, he knew, but it didn’t keep him from looking earnestly at his friend.

He heard the book heave a weary sigh before tipping slightly in a nod. “Alright, my friend. I will stand by you, of course. I just want, more than anything, for you to be happy.” The tone was subdued, but it loosened the knot in Draco’s chest just a little.

“Me too, Penha. Thank you.”

.o0O0o.

The next day, Draco spent a quiet morning with his book-friends before he had to bid them farewell and get ready. He dressed in the finest white dress robes he had ever seen, chuckling nervously as his mother and the professionals she’d hired fussed over him every which way. A nervous smile graced his features as his parents elegantly delivered him to the waiting platform set out before more than a thousand guests. The altar was lovely, the flowers were beautiful, and the sun was shining even as it let down a light summer sunshower that evaporated almost instantly.

It was all perfect.

As the music played and Astoria approached, Draco smiled at her even as he felt a wave of apprehension. He had been aware of the imminence of this day from before he could remember. His careful rearing had been peppered here and there with vague mentions of this momentous event. The woman that approached him and took his hands was nice enough, and she was stunningly beautiful in her wedding ensemble, but it finally struck him that the words he was about to say to her were meant to tie them forever. Granted, it wasn’t an oath taken by magic, but it was an oath based on one’s own honor. Penha’s words haunted him, and while he still felt the pull of his need to do this for his family, the idea that he might never have the chance to experience real love niggled at his mind.

He said the words as they were dictated to him, loud and clear and ringing to the edges of the audience thanks to a spell. He smiled and wiped at the small tear that fell down Astoria’s face as she said her own vows. When they were presented to all and sundry as husband and wife, his back was straight and firm even as he bowed to the assembly. Their first shared kiss was gentle but lingering, and Draco couldn’t help the soft blush that rose at the murmurs that rose up after it – noting that at least Astoria wore a similar one. The reception had droned on after that, and Draco had done his every duty with the dancing and toasting until the festivities finally came to a close. When he led Astoria away, he acutely felt every set of eyes in the room trailing after them.

As Draco smiled at his new wife and led her to their wedding bed, he decided that he would never pressure his own children into such an arrangement.


	14. Denial

** Part Fourteen: **

At twenty-three, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Denial.

Closed in his study, he finally felt free to loosen his collar and relax. It had been a trying evening, to say the least. The awards dinner he had been set to hosting had been planned for months, and until that night he had been anticipating it. What made it almost unbearable was the argument that he’d had with Astoria the night before, after which he had finally just retired to his own chambers, and the morning after had been deathly silent. During the dinner they had needed to put on their masks and play the act of the happy couple, despite the fact that each of them avoided the other as much as possible.

As soon as the guests had left, Astoria had stridden off without a word. Draco had winced when he heard the door to her personal chambers slam shut.

After finally convincing himself that it would be better to relax with a glass of brandy than to drink himself into a stupor with firewhiskey, he slumped onto his desk. Reaching out, he tentatively brushed his fingers against Penha’s spine, wondering if the book had any advice for him. He was fairly certain that an expensive gift wouldn’t end the argument this time, even if he _had_ felt that he was at all in the wrong.

Penha fluttered awake, taking in Draco’s posture and the glass that rested nearby. “Did the dinner somehow not go smoothly?” he queried.

“More like Astoria and I had to play nice and not bite each other’s heads off all throughout. Otherwise it went swimmingly,” Draco muttered against the desk.

He heard the book sigh, but was surprised when Penha didn’t inquire as to what the fight was about like he usually did. “Have you ever thought about why you fight so much?” he asked instead.

Draco sighed, scrubbing at his face. “Sometimes I wonder. Sometimes everything seems to be going just fine, but then out of nowhere we snap at one another. I’ll admit that I start it sometimes, but she really does initiate it more often. I just don’t understand…” he trailed off helplessly, letting his guard down for his old friend.

“What are the things she starts it over? What usually occurs before a fight?”

“Nothing! That’s just the thing – if they had a common thread, then maybe I could fix it! Or we could talk about it. Or…something. _Anything_. The only time she repeats anything is when she’s done nattering about whatever that particular fight had been about.”

“And what do those things entail?” Penha pried.

“Sex!” Draco expelled explosively, throwing up his arms. “I would never have thought that a woman that shy would be so bloody pushy in bed! I just don’t understand it!” he ranted.

“Oh?” Penha prodded quietly, egging the rant on.

“Yes! It’s not like I don’t please her. Pardon me for being crude a moment, but she most certainly gets off every time – more than once, usually, lucky thing.” Draco snorted. He was sure that he would certainly be happier if _he_ could get off more than once in a row; perhaps she was just spoiled. Hell, sometimes he found it difficult to get off at all. “She’s constantly bringing up how I neglect her breasts, but when I try to pay more attention she complains about how awkward it is. And then she expects me to engage in certain acts that I have no interest in doing beyond the first time I tried them, like…cunnilingus.” Draco could feel his cheeks heat as he almost muttered the last word. His lack of prior experience had meant a bit of a dearth of experience in talking about such matters as well. Penha was an exception, being essentially male and knowing Draco well enough to dispel much of his awkwardness on the subject.

“I tried it once. It tastes disgusting. And it’s kind of…slimy.” He pulled a face, almost gagging in revulsion. “And really, it’s not like I expect her to do the same for me if she doesn’t want to – not to mention she has a bit too little respect for the goods. Sometimes I swear she must be a badger animagus from the way her teeth drag on occasion.” Draco shuddered, remembering a few too many altercations that her teeth had encountered with his…bits.

“So she is unsatisfied with your attentions to her female…parts,” Penha surmised. Draco scowled at him, somehow feeling that Penha was taking the piss a bit at his embarrassment.

“Yes, I suppose so,” he replied stiltedly. “There’s also the fact that the woman is a like a rabbit in heat. I mean…there are nights I would like to simply go to sleep. I work hard with the charity, as well as the businesses that Father is teaching me how to run. And then there’s my studies concerning the Potions apprenticeship that _she_ encouraged me to pick up. Most nights I just want to fall in bed and go unconscious.

“But her? No, of course not. No sooner do I slip out of my shirt before she accosts me. I acquiesce to her demands most of the time, but sometimes I just can’t bring myself to care enough.” He heaved a tired sigh, mussing his hair as he dragged a hand through it.

“Care enough? About…having sex with her?” Penha ventured.

“Yes,” Draco replied, groaning at the thought of the infuriating woman.

“Have you ever given thought to that? Most young men your age are known for their lustiness and insatiability. Have you ever wondered why she can’t rouse that in you?” Penha prodded gently. Draco shot him a look. If he hadn’t know the book so well he would have thought that to be a simple question; his friend’s usual methods made him believe that the question was slightly more loaded.

He hesitated, swirling the liquid in his glass as he mulled over the words. “Not really, to be honest. I do become…aroused, and fair frequently. Usually it’s just less of a hassle to relieve it myself in the shower,” he admitted, his face heating again. “Maybe spending those years that I would have been at my absolute randiest instead being scared out of my wits has dampened my tendencies a bit. I don’t know!” He threw up his arms in exasperation.

“And yet you never seek out the woman you share a bed with, even when it wouldn’t be a ‘hassle,’ as you put it,” Penha lead on.

Draco hesitated again, his brow furrowing as he thought. “No, not particularly,” he said haltingly.

What was Penha trying to get at? Was there something wrong with Draco? The book had mostly given up pestering him about the whole ‘love before marriage’ thing, so Draco was pretty certain this wasn’t one of _those_ lectures.

“Has _any_ woman ever inspired you to such amorous pursuits?” Penha asked gently.

“You know I was a virgin before her,” Draco replied instantly, then realized the leading tone his friend had used. He usually used that tone when he wanted Draco to think a bit harder about a situation. Reluctantly, he did.

It was true, no girl or woman had ever really engendered much sexual interest on his part. Other than his mother and Pansy, he rather disliked associating with them on the whole. He had practically fled from the attentions of several girls while in school, hiding behind Pansy and their rumor-based relationship or firmly ensconcing himself in the company of his male friends to keep the less predatory girls at bay. He was indeed rather attractive, but despite all the interest that had been paid to him he had always just felt…nothing.

He’d never been attracted to them.

His mother and Pansy had been the only women he had chosen to willingly associate with for any lengthy amount of time for as far back as he could remember. Despite the obvious reasons for his adoration, he also saw a strength, resilience, and no-nonsense-ness in his mother that made him respect her all the more. While she was always caring, she could be stern in her own way, like when she had punished him as a child. Pansy, on the other hand, had been like a bull in a china shop. Her wicked words and pushy demeanor had caused even a handful of the other Slytherin girls to cry – Hufflepuffs were easy, Ravenclaws less so, Gryffindors were a challenge, but Slytherins were almost impossible. Her take-it-or-leave-me-be attitude and thick skin had earned her a place amidst the Slytherin boys even before they had all come to Hogwarts. Despite her girlish appearance, she had always been much more at home amid the guys. Draco had cherished her almost like a sibling.

But if he wasn’t attracted to women, then… “Maybe I’m just one of those people who aren’t interested in other people on a sexual level.” It had sounded sturdier in his mind, but he wasn’t backing away from it. “It is moderately unfair to my wife, perhaps, but I will just have to try a bit harder to comply with her demands. I should do my duty to her, despite my disinterest,” he stated flatly, emotionlessly. He was afraid of how much flimsier it would come out if he didn’t strive for such a tone.

Penha, unfortunately, missed his tone and the muted panic he felt underneath it. “Or it could mean that–”

“Shut _up_ , Penha. SHUT _UP_!” he yelled, finally breaking the point of his control.

The book jumped slightly, clearly startled by the outburst. “But Draco, I’m just trying to–”

“No! I have had enough of this!” Draco snarled out harshly. “What, you couldn’t undermine my unloving marriage enough to make me cancel it that way, so you thought you’d try another tactic?!”

“No! I just–”

“You ‘just’! _Fuck_ you! I have hung on your every word for years – almost two decades – and now you try to make me insecure! Why?! Because I didn’t take your advice for once in my bloody life? Because I did something you didn’t agree with, but that _I_ knew was right?”

“No – child – just calm d–!”

“Don’t ‘child’ me!” Draco roared.

“I am not working against you!” Penha roared right back. Draco quieted for a moment, startled by the normally gentle book’s ferocity. “If you would get your head out of your arse, you might actually see for yourself the reason that you are so unhappy! It is your own foolishness that debilitates you, and this _farce_ of a marriage–!”

In a fit of rage, Draco grabbed for the book. Hurling it as hard as he could, he was gratified for a moment as it squarely shot into his intended target: the hearth. “ _FUCK YOU_!” With one last wordless snarl, Draco stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

Shortly afterward, the door to Astoria’s chambers could be heard slammed as Draco went to his wife.

.o0O0o.

It was two hours later that Draco came rushing back into the study. His clothes were rumpled and his lips swollen, but instead of a healthy flush and post-coital glow, his skin was ashen and tinged green.

“Penha?!” he cried, dashing straight to the fireplace. Tears pooled in his eyes and poured down his cheeks as he saw what remained of the charred book. His throat closed up and his lungs refused air at the sight. Unthinking, he tried futilely to snatch it back out of the greedy flames. After burning both of his hands, it finally occurred to him to use his wand, levitating the blackened mass out and extinguishing it.

“Penha? Please, oh Merlin, oh gods. Please, Penha. Please tell me you aren’t gone. Oh…oh gods, I’m so sorry. I’m _so sorry_ …” He curled up around the remains of the book, cradling it close to his chest as he cried. “Please, I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you. I’m so sorry. I’m an idiot; I’m _sorry_!”

He kept up a constant mantra of fervent pleas and desolate wails for what seemed like ages. When his eyes felt like there was nothing more to wring out of them, he sniffed harshly and looked down at his bundle.

He began to sob all over again as he saw the edges of yellow-white that had begun to extend from the blackened mass. He sat there the rest of the night, whispering apologies and sending as much belief as he could muster along the faint link he still felt.

.o0O0o.

Three days passed before Penha was finally whole again. Draco had been forced to leave his vigil and go through the motions of his days as much as necessary, but he had returned at every moment he could to check on the book.

After the second day, Draco knew that Penha was ignoring him. The book had begun vibrating angrily every time he tried to touch it. His mantra of apologies would start back up then, continuing until he was either called away or he didn’t know what else he could say.

He could _feel_ the silent treatment that Eshe was giving him from where she lay on a table across the room. He hadn’t even attempted to find consolation in her. She wasn’t very good at it on the best of days, and Draco figured she was probably more than furious with him for attempting to burn her soulmate…mindmate…bookmate…thing.

Finally, Penha had just lain silent when Draco tentatively reached out to stroke his cover. Draco had taken the book and curled up in his favorite chair, cuddling the book tightly and facing away from the fire. Carefully, he began to pick at what he and Penha had been discussing before his outburst. Or, rather, that Penha had tried to gently goad him into discussing before Draco had gone temporarily insane.

It was an uncomfortable thought to entertain. He managed to get far enough to think that it could be a possibility, but then he firmly buried it in his mind. Regardless of such, this was his life. He had married Astoria – not out of love, no, but out of duty. He would have his children – or child – by her, and then perhaps he might be able to think of the possibilities.

Draco had never been known for his patience, so after a few hours of deafening silence he finally gave in and began his pleading again. “Please? You’re my best friend,” was the wretched, wavering entreaty.

After a couple of seconds, the book’s pages flared out and relaxed as Penha gave a weary sigh. “Should I even get into the issues of your best friend being a quasi-inanimate object, or that you threw him into a fire?” came the tired response.

“…No,” Draco replied in a quiet, contrite tone.

“Alright,” was the kind rejoinder, tinged with sadness.

Draco sighed in relief, sagging as much of his tenseness deserted him. “I am so sorry, Penha. I truly am.”

“I know, child. And I will forgive you in a bit. I am still quite upset at this moment, though.” Draco nodded, knowing that he deserved much harsher and feeling all the more grateful for the compassionate book’s friendship.

“I understand.”

After a moment, Penha softly nudged him with one of his covers. “Have you given any thought to our discussion?” Draco gave the barest hint of a nod. “And?”

Draco sighed wearily. “This is my bed, Penha. I’ve made it, now I must lie in it.”

“But what to you _want_ , child?” Penha pressed, trying to see that he’d gotten through.

Draco felt the small flicker of awareness at the back of his mind, but quickly smothered it. “I want to be a father,” he said quietly.

Penha sighed, tipping to rest against his charge. “I see.”


	15. Healing

** Part Fifteen: **

At twenty-three, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Healing.

Reclining on the wonderfully cool grass, he heaved a heartfelt sigh. The heat of the summer wasn’t as stifling that night, and the soft breeze that came in off the lake every now and again made it perfect. Eshe and Penha had been set on the blanket nearby to protect them from the nightly dew, but Draco had wanted to go back to the days of his childhood and sprawl out on the bare ground.

The past few months had seen a lot of changes. The first had been when Draco had swallowed his embarrassment and spoken to his wife about their intimacy issues, relating that sometimes he really _was_ just that tired. She had had a lot to say on the subject and it floored Draco just how much she had been keeping in. She had internalized his lack of interest, letting it eat at her self-esteem. After many assurances, she had seemed much happier. They fought much less now. Draco tried harder to consciously seek out his wife when a particular urge hit instead of quickly taking care of it himself, and Astoria tried to assist him with his burdens so that she would understand just why he was often so exhausted.

Penha had forgiven Draco quickly; Eshe had been waspish for a bit longer. Eventually, though, he had apparently begged and apologized enough that he had found himself forgiven, even if he wasn’t entirely absolved. He wondered if maybe it had anything to do with the biggest change in his life.

A month after his fight with Penha, Astoria had fallen ill. After pacing outside a St. Mungo’s room for the longest twenty minutes of his life – he was beginning to wonder if there was an issue with his watch, so sure was he that it had been hours instead – the pleasant Healer had finally exited the room. And then, with a bright smile, she gave him the best news of his life.

He was going to be a father.

He had whooped and swept the startled Healer up in a crushing hug, throwing his usual decorum to the wind in his jubilance. He had quickly recovered, flushing and clearing his throat in embarrassment as the woman laughed at his reaction. She may have assured him that such was not an unusual response, but damn it, he was still a Malfoy and he was supposed to remain composed, for Merlin’s sake.

Astoria’s symptoms had been dealt with in a much calmer manner after that, and it seemed like neither of them could be happier. She was one of those women who truly glowed when pregnant, and Draco was of the belief that it suited her well. She often got exasperated with him now with the way he would hover and the startling moments when he would reach over out of the blue to caress her slowly swelling abdomen. Despite the offer, they had both declined to know the sex of the child before the birth – they wanted it to be a surprise.

Draco and Astoria had both rolled their eyes when their mothers immediately began planning the announcements and the gala to show off the expectant mother and of course a party to celebrate the birth soon after the child was born. When Draco had seen the increasing number of toys that his mother had stockpiled and attempted to hide, he decided it was time to decorate the nursery.

His mother had tried to take that over, but held back at Draco’s tacit request. While he still accepted her help – seasoned with such things as color schemes as she was – he wanted to have the biggest role in the process. He had offered to share it with Astoria, but she had shrugged and shooed him on his way so she could rest.

The nursery wasn’t quite complete yet, but it was already beautiful. The first floor room had a myriad of windows along two walls, letting in the soft daylight for much of the day. The windows faced south and east, ensuring that the gentle light of morning would creep in first thing and last for most of the day. The walls and ceiling were Draco’s second favorite part, where gentle whites and light blues and soft greys all faded in and out of each other like the most perfect summer sky. The wood-paneled floor had been draped in soft, plush carpets and rugs done in a tasteful shade of light green, like an understated version of the earth outside. Pale wood furniture decorated the room, providing plenty of shelves for all manner of toys and books, as well as a slew of tiny nooks, crannies, and cubbies where secret treasures could be hidden. Draco’s favorite part, though, was the comfortable wooden rocking chair he’d placed right beside the crib; when anticipation made him restless, he would often be found there, rocking gently.

When he had looked around the room, he had seen the differences between it and the décor of his own childhood. Everything there was soft and warm, inviting and always tempting a smile from whomever looked in on it. Comfort and welcome was an enormous factor in the decorating process. When Draco looked at those walls, he could feel a sense of freedom and endless opportunity that he hoped his child would take to heart. His own nursery had been beautiful, but opposite. Elegance had been foremost in style there, and the rigid structures and dark woods had leant an air of superiority. The various greens along his walls spoke volumes of his expectations. Everyone who entered that room had been awed by the luxury, but none of them had been touched by it.

Draco had loved his room, but he was glad that he loved his child’s room more.

It had been one of those nights when he couldn’t sleep, thoughts of the future whirling through his head and touching every worry there. He had been sitting in the rocking chair, but soon he had given that up to pace the hallowed halls of the manor. A thought had struck him, then, and with a quick trip to retrieve his book-friends and something to keep their covers from being damaged, he had set off toward the lake.

It had been years since the war. It seemed like a lifetime ago, to him. Even if it had left its mark forever on the souls of the people in the Wizarding world, it was gradually fading from the forefront of people’s minds. His work with the WAR Foundation had dwindled as reparations were slowly completed and lives were begun anew; they had recently even amended the charity’s constitution to work with victims of other disasters as well now, creating their own fight against the ravages of the world at large. What still remained, though, were many of the unhealed wounds in his mind.

He was about to be a father, and with that would come a hefty tonne of responsibility. He loved his own father, but he recognized some of the mistakes the man had made while hiding his own wounds. If Draco was going to learn anything from those mistakes, then it would be that he needed to deal with his own issues before trying to rear a child. Thus, he had returned to a place that he felt safe – a place that reminded him of the innocence and carefreeness of his younger years, when his greatest worry in the world was about book-thieving garden gnomes. He might not be able to return to that state, but perhaps he could find the peace afforded within it.

Draco could feel the tender reassurance of his friends pulsing softly at him from nearby, and it braced him. Staring up at the moon hanging heavy and bright above him, he took a deep breath and let it all out. Every issue, every scar, every misgiving – he took them out one by one and assessed them, addressed them, broke them down. It was hard. He had to be honest about a lot of things that he had never wanted to confess to himself. He had to admit blame in a lot of areas – and, surprisingly harder, let go of the blame in other areas. He had to examine his own imperfections, and acknowledge the flaws he had never wanted to see in others. It was difficult to keep the tide from overwhelming him once he had pried open the floodgates – everything all swirled together to rebound into each other, building and building on every thing that had come before – but he persevered.

A spurned friend. A despised ideal. An ignored hand. Overwhelming sorrow. A flooring discovery. Years of insults. Childish anger. Sacrifices. Perceived failures. Despair. Terror. Guilt. Shame. He picked each of them up and healed them, gently laying them to rest as the jigsaw pieces in the puzzle of his life. His heart leapt in triumph as each one fell seamlessly to rest.

He was still an imperfect being. He would still have his anger and his foolish moments. He still had a few dark things tucked away that he wasn’t ready to face yet. But he was whole. No longer was there a shattered mess swept under various rugs in his mind and held down with pillars of pride, but an intricate display of all the faults and successes in his life, interwoven and intertwined.

Tears still stained his face as the moon faded and the sun tentatively peeked its crown over the horizon, but a broad smile strained across his features. It was simple, and yet it spoke volumes of serenity and determination, hope and peace.


	16. Forgiveness

** Part Sixteen: **

At twenty-four, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Forgiveness.

It had been an awkward affair when he’d attended the Parkinson-Longbottom wedding. As one expected of a best friend, there was no way he would ever miss Pansy’s wedding. However, her choice in husband had been rather surprising to Draco, to say the least. Not that Longbottom hadn’t grown into a rather handsome man in his own right – and was a wealthy, pureblooded hero, to boot – but Draco would never have expected it.

Then again, brash Pansy marrying a Gryffindor wasn’t _entirely_ surprising.

Draco had attended as anticipated, and while he had made certain to have a dance with his friend and congratulate her, he did his best to avoid her new husband. If one knew him well, they would have realized that he practically fled every time the man circled near, but to the untrained eye it had looked like his attention had merely been caught elsewhere. On the other side of the ballroom. As far from Longbottom as possible.

It wasn’t that Draco had anything against the man – not at all. He was, in short, embarrassed. He remembered the kind boy from their days before Hogwarts, whom he had struck down and abandoned. He also remembered all the taunts and tricks he’d played on him throughout their school years. The jeers he had thrown – often centered around abusing the boy’s surname in order to make fun of the pudginess he’d sported in younger years – made Draco wince.

Pansy knew him all too well, and while she loved him dearly he could clearly read her exasperation with him. As time drew on after the wedding, she continued to mention here and there that Draco should come over for a visit or that they should bring the spouses out for a friendly dinner. Every opportunity she could she would needle at him, even going so far as to outright ask for Draco to just talk to Neville. She would still heave her generous bosom in a put-upon sigh and come to visit or go out on luncheon-shopping ventures with him anyway, so he never thought about it being too dire when he ignored her prodding entirely.

It was one such afternoon when they had returned from one of their outings and Draco was carefully unloading his parcels in his workshop. He had run all over obtaining various bits of ingredients for his Potions work, as well as a few odd things for his occasional hobby of magical research. Pansy was watching him with amusement as he fussed over the little containers.

“Honestly, if you fuss that much over your child, I think the poor thing will grow up paranoid,” she mused. “Then again, if you fuss over your ingredients more than your child, I’m afraid I might have to initiate an intervention,” she added blithely, tapping the mock-worried moue of her lips with one long, crimson-painted fingernail. She quickly switched to a grin when Draco shot her an irritated look, draping herself over a comfortable chaise nearby.

“Hah hah, Pans,” he mumbled, squinting at the spidery writing on a jar full of red goo to make sure it was what he thought before he put it away. “You worry about your own future sprog, I’ll worry about mine.”

“Oh, no, I think it’ll be a while yet before I give over to becoming Pansy Widebottom, waddling all about. I’ll have plenty of time to spoil your delightful progeny rotten,” she singsonged sweetly.

Draco blinked and raised an eyebrow at her. “You’re waiting?”

“Some people want to enjoy their youth, darling,” she drawled suggestively. She chuckled when she saw Draco roll his eyes. “Nev and I want kids eventually, but we’re young yet. It’s not like we’re Muggle; we’ve got more than twice as long to get settled,” she said matter-of-factly.

Draco gave a reluctant nod. When you were fairly certain to live close to two centuries, there was plenty of time for most things. “I suppose I was just overexcited,” he finally returned with a shrug. They bantered about the horrible names that each of their families would want to inflict on their future offspring for awhile, Draco checking off the items he’d needed as he continued to put things away.

With a sigh, he noticed the last item on his list. “Damn snowdonia hawkweed buds for being so rare! I swear I’ve owled at least two dozen apothecaries to no avail. I’m beginning to think that this test isn’t so much to try my Potions skill but to strain my patience and see how doggedly I can track down the necessary ingredients,” he growled, glaring at his latest assignment.

“I know where you can get it,” Pansy said lightly. Draco snapped his gaze to her with a mix of wariness and hopefulness. Her smile was pure sweetness and utter wickedness, all glossed over with a predatory gleam.

Dreading the answer that he was almost certain he already knew, he asked. “Where?”

“Neville’s shop, of course. I remember him crowing over getting it to grow not too long ago. You’ll have to visit him to get it, though,” she added loftily.

Draco braced himself on his desk and heaved a quiet sigh, letting his head hang. His friend had finally trapped him into visiting her husband.

.o0O0o.

The next day, Draco found himself standing outside of a happy looking shop simply titled Secrets of Rare Herb Gardening. It was two stories and narrow like most of the other shops on the street, but Draco had glimpsed the large greenhouses that populated the land behind it when he’d approached. A couple of pleasant windchimes hung along the storefront amidst several hanging pots, playing a beautifully unstructured melody in the light breeze.

Many of the plants out front were common varieties, bursting with colorful flowers and every shade of green imaginable. To anyone else, it would seem like a charming little Herbology shop. To Draco, it felt as if he were walking to his doom.

He was honestly beginning to wonder if they would actually have the buds he required – he wouldn’t put it past Pansy to fudge the lines of the truth. Draco did recall hearing that after Longbottom had finished his Herbology apprenticeship in record time, he had been a bit disappointed when Professor Sprout had decided to stay on at Hogwarts for a few more decades. Instead, he had taken to plying his trade from a small store where he could put to use his specialty in breeding nearly-extinct species. Despite the quaint appearance, Draco would grudgingly admit that he had heard that the store did very good business in rare flora.

Deeming that he had spent enough time standing and staring when another shopkeeper began looking at him oddly, he opened to door and entered. A soft chime played as he crossed the threshold. The inside had been altered using Wizard-space, sprawling into a vast array of shelves and counters. Different areas of the store were bathed in bright artificial sunlight while others were kept in shadow; Draco wouldn’t be surprised if there was an area that was kept pitch black for the plants that required it, like Devil’s Snare. Every flat surface was neatly covered in pots of varying sizes, and lattices hung across the walls and ceiling for those plants that refused to be contained. Bins containing pre-prepared specimens were kept in cubbieholes underneath the counters and in a couple cases along the walls, their labels denoting which separate part they contained for those who didn’t want the whole plant.

Taking a moment to peruse the store, Draco was excited to find several things that he had wanted to work with but hadn’t been able to acquire. Just not snowdonia hawkweed. Sighing, he availed himself to edging over to the wide counter at the back of the store. A different chime played as he approached, and it was only a few moments later when a smiling Neville Longbottom emerged from a backroom, wiping his dirt-soiled hands on a towel.

“Hello there–!” he bellowed, stopping short when he finally focused on the man before him. Draco nodded his head politely in greeting, which seemed to snap Longbottom out of his daze. “Er, hullo, Malfoy. Were you here to see Pansy, or did you need other assistance?” he asked with an awkward, though welcoming, smile.

“Actually, your adoring wife bragged that you might have a particular ingredient I have need of,” Draco returned evenly, not entirely sure how to act in response. He managed to keep his uncertainty out of his voice, but it was difficult.

“She did, did she?” Neville asked, a smile blooming across his face at the thought of his wife. That he obviously loved Pansy as much as he did made Draco smile slightly in response. Neville seemed to brighten at that as well. “Well, I hope I can help. What was it exactly that you needed?”

“Snowdonia hawkweed buds, unbloomed. I need about a dozen midsized ones.”

Neville whistled appreciatively. “I do have those, actually. They were a right pain to get to grow. They’re highly protected in the wild, as they only grow in these seven tiny patches in Wales.”

“If you’re telling me it will be expensive, then I assure you that is of no issue,” Draco drawled, raising both eyebrows as a grin twitched at his lips.

Surprisingly, Longbottom laughed. “No, I would assume not. If you’ll give me a bit, I can go get those for you,” he offered. “They’re not in the main shop as of yet, since they’re so finicky.”

“Thank you, that would be much appreciated.”

“Feel free to look around. I’ll be back shortly, but it’s still a bit of a walk.”

Draco inclined his head in response, turning to go peruse the other wares as Longbottom jaunted off. He took note that the selection was as vast as it was well-grown. There were more than a handful plants that he was uncertain of the properties of, and given his education that was surprising. Every pot had been treated with impeccable care, and whenever he stopped to poke through a bin he found every bit to be of superb quality.

Draco smiled fondly when he reached a particular flower labeled ‘ _tacca chantrieri_.’ He carefully selected a handful of seeds as well as a couple pots that were just getting ready to bloom. While they made useful ingredients, these he just wanted to add to his garden. When he stood up straight again, he noticed that Longbottom had returned to the counter and made his way over.

“Apologies, I didn’t hear you reenter.”

The other man waved him off. “I didn’t want to disturb you,” he said with a gentle smile. “What’s that you’ve got there now? Ah, the black bat flower. Pretty, but odd.”

“They remind me of someone,” Draco ventured quietly. It took Neville a moment, but then his eyes widened. A second later his face relaxed into a sad smile that Draco had to look away from.

“Fitting, I suppose. The roots hate being restrained, so it should be probably be repotted or replanted every year or so. They also prefer their soil to be a bit acidic, but also light, porous, and well-drained,” Neville lectured in an amused tone.

Draco felt the edge of a grin quirk up. The black bat flower, disliking being bound and loving acidic substances. Yes, there was little wonder they always made him think of Severus, in addition to the common name and physical appearance.

“No wonder I keep them on the other side of the store,” Neville stated with a wide grin.

Draco let out a little chuckle, shaking his head. “Thankfully I’ve heard that it is more difficult to explode a flowerpot than a cauldron,” Draco teased without thinking. He very nearly regretted the words as soon as they had come out, but was slightly eased by the other man’s next words.

“Thankfully I don’t usually have to worry about people dropping extra ingredients in my flowerpots,” Neville teased back. He raised his eyebrows at Draco, grinning in a way that he had surely learned from Pansy.

Draco laughed weakly in response, then fell silent as Longbottom gingerly wrapped up his purchases and placed them in a basket that would ease their carrying. Draco paid, accepting his change with a brusque nod.

“Will that be everything, then?” Neville asked professionally, obviously more than happy to get back to his greenhouses.

“I suppose it will, yes.” Draco turned from the counter, taking a few steps before stopping. Turning back around, he quietly called, “Longbottom?”

“Yes?” Neville responded curiously, looking up from where he was clearing dirt off the counter.

“I–…” Draco began awkwardly, his mouth trying to form the words of an apology while his mind tried to figure out exactly what he could say.

“Don’t worry about it,” Neville said gently, an understanding smile twitching at his lips.

Draco nodded stiltedly, then turned and exited the store.

.o0O0o.

Less than a fortnight later, Draco found himself returning to the shop. The ingredients he needed were more common, but he’d seen much better stock at Secrets than he had found at his usual retailers. Neville was standing at the counter this time, marking up a calendar for a customer as she nodded along to his muted instructions. Draco took his time locating what he needed, picking through its containers to find what he would consider sufficient.

When he finally approached the counter, the other customer was waving goodbye with a large smile on her face. “Good afternoon, Longbottom,” he greeted cordially.

“Two visits in less than a month? Has my wife been pestering you again?” Neville asked with a laugh.

Draco shook his head slowly, wondering how much Pansy had shared of her attempts to get him to visit. Knowing her and her love of both storytelling and complaining when she didn’t get her way, probably most of them. “Sadly, no, I haven’t seen her in awhile. Do be sure none of your carnivorous plants have eaten her; shopping alone would be lonely.”

“You act like there’s a predator alive that would chance it with that woman,” Neville returned with a grin. “But I will be duly careful, I promise.”

“Good. I feel safer now, knowing you Gryffindors and your promises.” The other man snorted a laugh, then began picking through the items Draco laid out on the counter.

“Nev? Are you out there?” Pansy called from somewhere in the backroom.

“At the counter, love. Come out here,” he called back.

After a moment, Pansy emerged from behind the light cloth that blocked the doorway. Her eyes lit up as they came to rest on Draco, and he just raised one cool eyebrow at her in response. With a grin, she sauntered up behind Neville and draped herself across one of his broad shoulders. “Did you remember to get a count of those monkshood stalks like I asked you to?” she inquired sweetly.

Neville winced. “Er, nnnnnooo. I’ll, um, do that as soon as I finish here?” he offered, clearly fearing the wrath of his petite wife.

“Good. I need it to calculate what we’ll owe for next year’s toxic plant license. I believe I’ve got everything else settled, other than that one fee for growing exotic plants, as I’m still waiting to hear back from the Ministry department in charge of that,” she concluded, eying the clipboard in her hand with intense scrutiny.

“What would I ever do without you?” Neville asked, shooting her a sappy smile before leaning over to kiss her cheek.

“You’d go bankrupt. Or you’d end up burying your galleons and wondering why nothing sprouted,” Pansy quipped absentmindedly, eyes still on her list.

“I’d like to think I would know the difference between gold and a seed by now.” His face had scrunched up in mock-hurt as he turned his wibbling lower lip on his wife. Draco had to chuckle at their antics.

“And you!” Pansy exclaimed, accusatorily pointing her quill at Draco. Longbottom rolled his eyes and left off his pout, going back to packing up Draco’s purchases. “I’m glad to see you finally here,” she stated, her features relaxing into a happy smile. It struck Draco to realize just how much this had meant to her.

“Well, I couldn’t resist the selection. Why didn’t you ever tell me about this place?” Draco grinned when she scowled at him. “And here I would think you would be more than ecstatic to brag on netting a man so good with his hands,” he teased, his grin widening as Neville blushed and Pansy’s jaw dropped.

“Draco!” she shrieked, tossing her quill at him. He burst into laughter as he just barely managed to evade the projectile, rusty Seeker reflexes still letting him snag it out of the air before it hit the ground. She snatched it back when he made to politely hand it over.

The rest of the visit was spent with the two of them nettling each other while Neville shook his head and did his best to ignore them.

.o0O0o.

Draco found himself coming back to the store more and more often in the following weeks. With Astoria looking ready to pop and getting aggravated at every little thing, he had found it best to busy himself elsewhere whenever possible. Longbottom had quickly become Neville again, and Draco found himself enjoying their conversations. Sometimes they would speak of people they knew, sometimes of their families, and sometimes Neville would excitedly usher Draco into the greenhouses out back to see some new breakthrough he’d had in breeding.

Pansy was there most days when the shop was open, handling all of the numbers and accounts behind the scenes. It had quickly become apparent that while Neville produced all of their goods, it was Pansy who really ran the business. “She enjoys it,” Neville had remarked with a shrug when Draco had asked how that came to pass.

As time wore on, Draco was aware of one little thought niggling at the back of his mind. It wasn’t necessarily important, but he had always been a curious being. That it had to do with one of his best friends made him more so.

Despite their many talks, he had never heard from his only female best friend just how she and her husband had gotten together. Draco wasn’t even certain when it had begun. He guessed that perhaps it had been while he was still incarcerated in his home, but Pansy had never said a word. Thinking back, he wondered if his friend had been nervous to tell him, knowing his past with the other man.

One day, during a lull in conversation while in the greenhouses, Draco finally decided to ask Neville. “How _did_ the two of you get together? I don’t think Pans has ever mentioned it,” he queried lightly.

“I would normally be surprised if she had, really,” Neville returned pausing in his ministrations to peer at Draco quietly.

Draco blinked once, his curiosity more than piqued. “Oh?”

“You’ve never asked her? I thought there wasn’t anything you two didn’t know about one another,” Neville joked.

“Oh, not everything, I assure you,” Draco returned, quirking an eyebrow suggestively. He was always gratified by the fact that Neville was easier to fluster with sexual innuendo than he himself was. As long as Pansy and her shameless repertoire of taunts never found out about Draco’s torment of her husband, he was golden. “If you’ll believe it, I am too terrified to ask one of my oldest and dearest friends.” After a moment of hesitation, he added, “Plus, she’ll embellish.”

Neville laughed loudly, nodding in agreement. “I can understand that.” Dusting his hands off, he sat back on a stool and gave a contemplative sigh. “It started back in eighth year,” he began. Draco felt his eyebrows raise, startled to find that he had been around and hadn’t noticed.

“She was having a rough time of it, as I’m sure you recall.” Draco did; Pansy’s father and elder brother had both been Death Eaters, and she hadn’t curried much love from the public herself. “I came across her one day, sitting in an alcove along one of the quieter hallways. She was crying.” Neville was frowning at whatever image his mind’s eye had focused on, so he didn’t catch the shocked expression on Draco face. Pansy? His Pansy? Crying?

“I stopped to make sure she was okay. Gran raised me to be a gentleman, and a lady in tears is not to be overlooked. She spat some rather nasty swears at me trying to get me to go away,” he added wryly. “Eventually, I finally got her to move her hands from her face and look at me.

“Apparently some other girls had accosted her and outnumbered her. They had spelled words to appear all over her face in varicolored welts. ‘Murderer.’ ‘Whore.’ ‘Death Eater scum.’ They all fell along that line,” he said quietly. His hands had balled into angry fists as he spoke, his expression shifting into a glare. “It took awhile to get her to let me help, and after a few minutes of her insulting my casting ability she finally allowed me to point my wand at her and remove the words.

“After that, I always seemed to find her when she had been upset. Or maybe she found me; I never really thought too much on it. One time I walked right into a scuffle between her and two fourth year Ravenclaw boys. She was holding them off rather valiantly, even though they had almost broken her wand. I spelled them to the ceiling and gave them what is possibly the worst tongue-lashing I’ve ever given anyone. I’m actually not sure how they got down after that, but they made certain to skitter in the other direction the moment they saw me or Pansy from then on.”

Draco sat there and soaked it all in. It was a revelation, to say the least. Had he been so focused on his own issues that he hadn’t noticed his friends being bullied? No…he remembered those days. Pansy hadn’t seemed all that different – a little quieter in groups, but she was still the same old Pans around him. It made sense, though. Girlish she might seem, but she was more proud of her ability to stand on her own than even most of the boys – possibly because she was surrounded by a society that had deemed females as the fairer sex. She was like a cat, when she was hurt she wouldn’t go for help – she would hole herself away to lick her wounds.

“I can see her fighting off two boys, honestly,” Draco remarked after awhile. He and Neville shared a weak smile. “She never mentioned anything. She never acted any differently. Had I known, I would have tried to help her.” He sighed. “But of course she wouldn’t,” he added quietly, Neville nodding along in agreement.

“But being The-Girl-Who-Wanted-To-Hand-Over-The-Boy-Who-Lived was rather difficult to shoulder alone, you know?” Neville offered, causing Draco to nod in agreement. “I don’t think most people realized just how scared and desperate she had been. She was doing what she thought necessary to survive; I couldn’t blame her for that, and neither does Harry.” Draco smiled at that thought. _‘I don’t blame you.’_ The words from years before echoed in his mind.

“After school ended, I just had the, er, _urge_ to show up on her doorstep on occasion.” Neville’s expression was the picture of innocence, making Draco snort. “People hadn’t been kind to her when she’d gone out alone. I offered to escort her somewhere every now and again, and she calculatingly accepted. I swear, I carried more shopping bags in those days than I care to have counted…” Neville trailed off with a laugh. “It was gradual after that, then. Polite conversation had turned into banter, which then became flirtation. One night over dinner I just blurted it out – ‘Will you marry me?’ I think she was torn between shock and wondering if I was kidding.” The man laughed under his breath. “You’ve no idea how relieved I was when she said yes. Rather, she said ‘I get to pick out your robes,’ but I kind of figured that was a yes.”

“Sometimes I still wonder that you weren’t sorted Hufflepuff, with all of your sentimentality,” Draco teased gently. “Then again, you’re probably one of the most courageous people I’ve ever met, so I suppose Gryffindor fits.”

“Courageous? Me?” Neville said in mock-surprise, a hand resting on his chest.

“You deal with Pansy on a regular basis. That’s courage, there. …Or stupidity, but well – you are a Gryffindor.” He smirked as Neville shot him a two-fingered salute.

“We’ve all got a bit of all the Houses in us, I think, even if one might fit better than the others,” Neville replied a bit more seriously. “I’ve heard tell that you’re quite brave yourself – when it counts, at least.” The teasing light in the other man’s eyes made Draco wary of the stories that Pansy might have been telling him.

“Whatever Pansy told you, I swear that it was all lies,” he said firmly, fighting a laugh.

“Oh? Really? So no dragon plush until you were ten?”

“Only until I was four. And then I slept with books,” Draco stated truthfully.

“Perhaps you should have been a Ravenclaw, then.”

Draco was unable to make his retort, laughter interrupting him. “Alright, Longbottom. You win this time,” he declared with a put-upon sigh.

.o0O0o.

In the days leading up to the birth, Astoria had needed to be bedridden. Draco had wisely taken to escaping her wrath whenever possible once _she_ had taken to throwing things. He visited Greg sometimes, or sat and talked with Blaise over long-distance Floo-call from wherever the man had momentarily taken up between Italy and France. Most of his free time, though, was spent with the Longbottoms. They were the best at making him forget his nerves for awhile, and there was something about them that Draco craved to be near.

He wasn’t quite sure when he had graduated from unnecessary visits to the shop to walks through the greenhouses to occasional evening meals. Perhaps, like Neville and Pansy’s relationship, it had just happened naturally and gradually.

One late summer evening, he was sitting on the rear veranda of the Longbottom Estate, sipping a glass of wine and chatting with Neville. Pansy had gone in a bit ago to finish up some correspondence, but the two of them had stayed behind to watch the curious dance of the fireflies as they chattered. After awhile, the two men had fallen into a comfortable silence, just enjoying the camaraderie and warm night air.

Draco finally broke the silence with a relaxed sigh. “You know, I never thought I’d be here.”

“Hmm?” Neville replied distractedly, swiveling to focus on his friend after a moment.

“Free. Happy. On the verge of fatherhood. Sitting with my best friend’s husband on their back porch. And that it would be you, Nev.” Draco smiled softly at him.

Neville shrugged and smiled, then leaned back to stare out at the fireflies again. A contemplative look saturated his features, the kind he got that somehow reminded Draco of Penha. Likely because such a look was often accompanied by advice the book would be proud of – and agree with entirely. As was usual of Neville, he didn’t disappoint.

“Love, sometimes, takes you places you never even thought to predict,” he began slowly. “Somehow, though, it always seems to take you to where you need to be. I’ve found that it is when you finally realize that that place is also where you _want_ to be – and possibly, in some odd way, have _always_ wanted to be – well, that’s when life truly begins.”

Draco gave a low chuckle. “Perhaps. I just wish it had gotten me here sooner, and without so many snags along the way.”

Neville shook his head. “Everything happens to us for a reason. It shapes us, though we have the ultimate decision in how it does.” He paused to gather his thoughts, swirling his wine and savoring a sip before continuing. “Though the roads we have walked – and have yet to walk – may seem long and winding without aim, they have lead and will lead us to where we need to be. It might become odd or frustrating at times, and we may curse the fates when the paths don’t just take us to where we need straightaway. But, when we look back over the courses of our lives, we realize that we needed all those little moments of distraction and joy and hurt – that we might never have appreciated what we have now if they hadn’t prepared us for it, slowly and gently and sometimes painfully.” __

__Draco felt his throat close up in emotion and struggled to keep it off his face. There had been a lot of pain over the course of his journey, speckled here and there with tiny moments of elation. Every stepping stone along the way, though, had made him the man he was that day. There were things he understood now that so many others could not, because they hadn’t lived the life he had. They hadn’t felt the same pains or made the same sacrifices; they hadn’t felt the same love or engendered the same devotion. He had partially realized it when he set himself on a path of healing all those months ago, noting how each wound had healed to become part of the same puzzle as those things that had buoyed him through the darkest of days.

Finally looking over at Neville, he returned the understanding, somewhat affectionate smile that the other man was giving him. On one hand, he wanted to still find it hard to believe that he could be sitting here with this man, speaking as they were. On the other hand, looking back and measuring the stepping stones in his path, he knew that it wasn’t such a stretch.

In that moment, he finally realized what drew him back again and again to the home of the Longbottoms: it was right where he needed to be.

They had both been changed by the war, and yet had managed to still remain themselves. They had changed each other, but they were still _them_. Along the way, they had forged a bond of love between them so strong that nothing in the world could ever make it waver. Pansy had needed to feel the weight of her decisions, and with time – and perhaps a bit of Neville’s help – had come to forgive herself and move on, stronger. Neville had needed to trust in himself, and had become a pillar that Draco was certain had helped many more than Pansy through a storm. Irregardless of Pansy’s past indiscretions, Neville had reached out to her; she, in turn, had come to terms with her regrets and made her apologies. Once they had come to that place of strength, they had gained more than just understanding.

Despite his efforts at healing, Draco hadn’t really put much thought into forgiving _himself_. He had let go of most of his grudges and forgiven many of others’ trespasses, but he had still ultimately blamed himself. But now… Pansy had forgiven him for when he had neglected their friendship, because she understood just what pains had plagued him. More than that, though, Neville had forgiven Draco for his multitudinous efforts at causing injury over the years, because he understood that Draco had done the best he could with the distresses he’d faced.

They had stood both separately and together, reaching out to give Draco the most precious and freeing gift in the world: forgiveness. That was what Draco had wanted – and needed – more than anything else right then, even if he hadn’t been aware of it at the time. And now it was time for Draco to forgive himself.

He heaved a sigh of relief as the burdens he’d heaped on his own shoulders slowly started to feel a little lighter. It wasn’t instantaneous, but he could take heart that it would happen like all good things in life – gradually.

Silence had fallen again, but it was comfortable. Draco finished his wine and turned to his friend. “Right, so since you seem to have all the answers to the universe,” he began impishly, hoping to inject a bit of levity to their situation, “I have a question.” Neville snorted a laugh into his glass. “Wise one, I do ask that you tell me: just what _are_ the secrets of rare herb gardening?” 

Neville grinned at him. “Oh, that one’s simple: patience, perseverance, and love.” A moment later, Pansy stepped out from the backdoor with a new bottle of wine in hand, and Draco had to smile when Neville reached up and tucked one of her white namesake flowers behind her ear.


	17. Wonder and Fear

** Part Seventeen: **

At twenty-four, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Wonder and Fear.

Draco had thought he’d known fear well, after living with the Dark Lord in his home. But that afternoon, he realized that he’d had no idea about the grips of true terror.

The Healers had threatened to throw him out of the room more than once if he didn’t stop his infernal pacing. Astoria had called him every name in the book, as well as a few he was pretty certain she’d made up just for that moment. It had taken seventeen hours, with several scares along the way.

And now he held his beautiful, sleeping, _tiny_ son in his arms.

There were two times they’d thought they had lost him. At one point early on, there had been a torrent of blood, and they’d been afraid that Astoria was hemorrhaging. The baby’s vitals had dropped, and they weren’t sure they’d get him out in time. Then they managed to clear a portion of the mess and found that she’d had a blood pocket that had ruptured. A few spells removed most of the excess liquid and the baby’s vitals shakily rose. Later, when Astoria had finally been allowed to push, every time she bore down the baby’s heartrate had spiked and then gone very low. A Mediwitch finally cast the diagnostic spell that informed them that the umbilical cord had become wrapped around the child, squeezing it and choking it.

It took nearly an hour of work. They had tried to tell Draco to distract Astoria and get her to stop pushing, but after one look at his pale, stricken face a Mediwitch had intervened instead. They had left Draco in his near-hyperventilating status, clutching the bedrail so tightly it was a wonder he didn’t leave imprints – their focus had been on the mother and unborn babe. It had taken some tricky spellwork, but Draco had sought out the best Healers and Mediwitches in the maternity wing for just that purpose. Tears of relief had rained down his face as he choked out an elated cry when they finally announced that the baby was safe. Astoria had tentatively been allowed to push again after that, and Draco’s heart had ratcheted up in speed with the ever-increasing amount of time that took.

Then, suddenly, a sharp wail broke into the room. At seven-thirty-nine P.M. on the twenty-first of August, his son had been born. Draco would later fervently deny crowing loudly, jumping for joy, and hugging the nearest Mediwitch.

Astoria had been weak and almost too out of it to give more than a glazed glance at her son before dropping into unconsciousness. The Healer had gently guided Draco’s hands over to awkwardly embrace the tiny form lying on his wife’s chest, letting him savor that moment. When he smiled and thanked her, she returned the smile and quickly bustled the child to an examination table to be wiped down and checked over. Draco had watched the proceedings with hawkeyes, possessive protectiveness making his fingers itch to have his child back again.

When he had been cleaned up and wrapped in a warm blue blanket, a Mediwitch came over to present the babe to his proud father. As dazed as Draco knew he seemed, it was no wonder she made him sit down before allowing him to take the bundle. She’d positioned his uncertain arms with expert efficiency, and Draco couldn’t ever remember feeling that gangly even during the most awkward of his teenage growth years.

Then again, he had never held anything so fragile and precious, either.

It had terrified him to see just how _small_ his son was. He’d devoured a few dozen books about babies and drilled his book-friends for what they knew to try to prepare himself, but he hadn’t really understood the words until that moment. Unwrapping him gently, Draco took care to adoringly admire his little miracle. Ten fingers and ten toes, two spindly little legs that twitched in sleep, and two arms curled tightly under his chin. He was a healthy-looking pale pink color, which relieved Draco to no end. His lips were a bit fuller like Astoria’s, but his nose and chin already looked a bit pointier as Draco had expected with his Malfoy genes. Barely visible once his small hat had been removed, a smattering of white-blond hair decorated his tiny little head.

Draco took a moment to press reverent, ghosting kisses here and there. One for each of his little feet, still slightly stained with ink. One for each tiny fist, as well as a small sob when one of them wrapped around Draco’s finger. Knees, elbows, chest, and chubby cheeks. One last one was pressed and held against his forehead, even while Draco clumsily rewrapped him. Tiny gooseflesh had started to appear on the little body, and Draco wanted to quickly remedy that.

Smiling like a fool, he gazed down into his son’s sleeping face. He felt like he was holding his heart in his arms, all fluttering and warm and bundled up. The baby gave a little stretch, eyes blinking open for only the tiniest of moments as he yawned and went back to sleep. Draco’s breath caught in wonder. He wondered if those tiny little grey-blue eyes would stay that way, so close to Draco’s own shade, or if they would change like most babies’ eyes eventually did.

Speaking gently, he leaned down to whisper to his son. “Your name is Scorpius, after the constellation Scorpio, because like a proper descendant of the Ancient and Most Noble House of Black, you must be named after some heavenly body,” he intoned evenly, with an air of mock-authority. “And while scorpions are tiny – just like you – they’re still wicked deadly, and they make the absolute _best_ healing potions. Your middle name will be Hyperion, because Mother made me promise – and you will soon figure out that your grand-mère always gets what she wants, one way or another.” He grinned down at the sleeping bundle. “And you are of course a Malfoy – which is definitely something to be proud of, and you should congratulate yourself.” He snorted a quiet snigger when the babe only yawned in response.

Sighing, he carefully brushed a hand over the downy head, mindful of its softness. Something snapped in him then and he felt his eyes filling with barely restrained tears. He only just managed to keep himself from clutching the fragile bundle tighter to his chest. “Oh…how is it that I love you so much already, and I’ve only just met you? How can you have stolen my heart so completely?” he whispered reverently, lovingly. A tear slipped out and fell, but Draco was quick to wipe it off of his son’s cheek.

The door opened then, and Narcissa peeked her head in with a smile. Draco waved in the four excited grandparents, figuring the Healers had given them the go-ahead. “It’s a boy,” he said lowly, cautious about waking him. “Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy,” he announced proudly, his full attention on his son.

Mr. Greengrass had taken a scrutinizing look at the little bundle before nodding once decisively and retreating to the other side of the room. Mrs. Greengrass had joined Narcissa in soft cooing over the child, but then made her way over to pet back the matted hair from her sleeping daughter’s sweaty brow. Lucius had stepped up beside his wife, wrapping an arm around her waist as he smiled openly down at his son and grandson.

Draco sent a tentative, slightly shocked smile back at him. A memory of something his mother had said to him during the hours of waiting surfaced, and the first thing he thought bubbled past his lips. “I didn’t faint!” he said triumphantly, though still quietly. Lucius colored and coughed, looking haughtily elsewhere in embarrassment. Draco heard what sounded suspiciously like muffled snickering behind Narcissa’s quivering lips.

Draco gave in and laughed, nothing tamping down his mirth on this day. That he now had one-up on his father was a bit gratifying as well.

A cry interrupted the moment, and Draco’s face went white in panic. He’d been so careful not to wake the boy, and then he’d gone and laughed and possible jostled him and–… _oh._ His mental rant abruptly ceased when a bottle popped into existence on the nearby table. A Mediwitch had set up some sort of pump device before leaving when it had become apparent Astoria wouldn’t be waking in time for the first feeding. Draco picked it up and awkwardly angled it to his squirming son’s mouth. His mother reached over and adjusted his hold, returning his quick, thankful smile with one of her own. Scorpius quieted as soon as he found the bottle’s nipple, suckling contentedly.

“Darling, what did you do to his swaddling?” Narcissa laughed lightly, finally noticing the hasty rewrap job. “Would you like me to fix it?” she asked, reaching out for her grandson. Draco chewed his lip and gave a look between his mother and his son, and he figured his anxiety must have shown. Narcissa gracefully lifted her hands instead, cradling her son’s face. “Perhaps I’ll teach you how after he’s done feeding, then,” she murmured, then leaned forward to press a kiss to Draco’s head. Draco’s smile was grateful as she pulled away.

The grandparents had stayed and chatted for a little while longer, then left for the evening with the promise that they’d be back the next day with Draco and Astoria’s friends. A Healer brought dinner for Draco when she came back to do a few more tests on the baby. She gave Astoria a few potions for sustenance while the woman slept on, assuring Draco that she was just exhausted and would wake sometime the next day. Draco declined the offer for Scorpius to be taken to the crèche for the evening, pulling up his comfortable chair next to the little cot swathed in monitoring spells.

Despite the stresses of the day, it took Draco a long time to find sleep. Fear had crept in now that the excitement had abated, running circles in his mind. Would he be a good father? Would he be able to raise Scorpius well? Pride at the man he was becoming and shame at the boy he’d been warred, pitching worry against appeasement.

If a half-heard comment from earlier proved true, it might be a bad idea for Astoria to try for another. His son would grow up an only child like he had. Draco was determined to make sure it wasn’t so lonely as his own adolescence. Greg and Millie were due to have a daughter soon, and Draco was certain he could find other friends and acquaintances with young children to fill Scorpius’s life with laughter and companionship. And when all the children had to go home, Draco would be there. Lucius had remained distant because of the scars left on him by his own father, but Draco had long since realized that his father was flawed and would not be following that example.

He’d almost lost his son twice during the birth. What would he do if anything happened to Scorpius now? There were so many dangers. He could fall ill to any number of things. He could have some accident while playing or running or going down the stairs. What if someone tried to hurt him to get to Draco? They were quieter now, but there were still those people who muttered. Draco wasn’t certain that he could handle it if anything ever befell his son.

Vaguely, he wondered if the fear would ever abate. Flashes of memory came to him – the terror and desperation in his parents’ eyes whenever they looked at him during the war, as well as in the following months the anxious edge to their voices or eyes when they sought him out until they found him. No, that fear would probably never fade. It would lessen, maybe, as Draco figured things out, but it would always be there. Never did a parent cease worrying about his or her child.

In a fit of momentary anxiety, Draco reached out to run a hand down his son’s form, as if to make sure that he was real and there and safe. The fear gripped his chest tightly for long minutes until he felt it: little fingers unconsciously curled around his own. Love flooded him then and he knew, more than anything, that everything would work out okay.

_Patience, perseverance, and love_ , he thought to himself, smiling as sleep claimed him.


	18. Acceptance

** Part Eighteen: **

At twenty-five, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Acceptance.

Life was hectic, but good. Scorpius had blossomed into a happy baby, quickly packing on weight. He had shown signs of intelligence early on, reaching a few baby milestones early. Draco had been on cloud nine for a week straight when at six months Scorpius had motioned one chubby hand at him and said ‘Pa!’ – he’d been trying to get Scorpius to call him ‘Papa’ from day one. Not even a month later, he’d taken his first steps. At nine and a half months, he was now tottering around quickly and had added several more words to his vocabulary.

Having a child he wanted to be so involved with had wrought several changes on Draco’s life. His already slow-going Potions Mastery had been put on indefinite hold. Anastasia and his other coworkers at the WAR Foundation had been more than understanding when he’d almost meekly asked to tone down his active role for awhile, smiling at him and waving him home to his son. His father had only gently eased Draco’s duties with the family businesses, but the paperwork was easy to do from his study and the meetings he still had to attend were often short.

Friends visited often, most of them loving the opportunity to get revenge for any infraction by spoiling his son rotten and then giving him back. Draco had ferreted out that a few of his varied acquaintances did indeed have small children, and Scorpius hadn’t wanted for companionship after that. The sound of him babbling with other babies or laughing when one of the gentle, slightly older children was playing with him always made Draco smile.

There were of course the normal issues. He cried something fierce when he wanted something, and especially if he didn’t get his way. Draco was ready to hex the next person who said that it was because he was a Malfoy. Sleep had been given up as permanently lost for several months until the babe finally – seemingly miraculously – slept through the night. Scorpius severely disliked being left alone at any point in time – to the point that peek-a-boo would set him off – and he would wail until someone retrieved him. Thankfully he was satisfied with being in the room where he could see you, even if you weren’t focused on him.

Draco’s parents had thrown him a birthday party on his last night as a twenty-four-year-old, respecting his wish that he wanted a quiet day of relaxation on his actual birthday. Friends had gathered near for a celebration, and Draco had been introduced to his _other_ aunt and her colorfully-haired grandson. The mischievous seven-year-old had taken to Scorpius instantly, nicknaming him ‘Score.’ The celebrations had finally called it quits a bit early when Astoria had gotten a little too tipsy and Draco had needed to put her to bed before she stumbled and hurt herself.

His parents had taken Scorpius with them for the night, the light in Draco’s mother’s eyes making him believe she thought he would be enjoying much more lascivious activities with his wife. He wasn’t about to say otherwise, even though she was incorrect. Astoria had given him a bit of a sloppy, drunken snog before he set her in bed, but as he expected she had fallen quickly asleep after that. The woman didn’t hold her alcohol very well, and he had hastily escaped her chambers so that he wouldn’t have to deal with the resulting surly hangover in the morning.

It wasn’t as if they had been overly amorous recently anyway. It had taken a few months for the Healers to say she was ready for such activity, and a month more before she felt well enough. Despite the Healers’ speculation that she might not be able to get pregnant again at all, she’d begun a regimen of potions to prevent another pregnancy anyway, the first one apparently scaring her enough for this lifetime. She hadn’t been as zealous in her pursuit of Draco as before, and he was sadly ambivalent to her lessened affections. She had seemed happier, though – frighteningly more so when a bottle of wine was in reach, but as long as she didn’t overindulge Draco said nothing.

It was now approaching midnight as Draco retired to his own personal chambers. He’d renovated the room since his youth, but had kept the dark woods and draping green bed hangings – it just seemed to suit and comfort him after so many years. He relaxed in a sprawl on the cushiony chaise set before the fire, nursing a bright green drink. He’d traded the wine for something both stronger and tarter once he was alone – if he wanted to get tipsy alone in his bedroom, well, it was his birthday and he’d do as he wanted.

In just a few minutes he would be turning a quarter of a century old. It was hard to believe it had already been that long, though he could remember moments of his life that had made him feel much older. His life had settled nicely, and he was definitely happy with the results. He had his family, he had his friends, and he had success. He had grown up, and it felt wonderful. There was no doubt in his mind that he had much more to learn in life, but he was a wizard – he had plenty of time.

Ticking back over his life, he reviewed the ups and the downs. The downs didn’t sting so much anymore, and he was able to view them with the respect of every other milestone he’d crossed. Along the way, one memory came back to him and still flooded him with guilt: when he had turned on Penha, throwing the helpful book into the fireplace in a fit of rage. He uneasily remembered that conversation, the fear that had crawled up his spine and pricked along his skin and the anxiety that had clutched at his heart. It had been so much easier to push it back and tamp it down and deny Penha’s gentle leading, even if it had continued to slink about in that shadowed, ignored part of his mind.

But he was in a good place, now. He was satisfied with his place in the world. At a quarter century, maybe it was time he shed some light on the issue. The fact that he was feeling a bit warm from his beverage consumption might have assisted with this bout of confidence.

He had never really felt the drawing need of attraction toward a woman, that was true. They were beautiful, certainly, and when he finally discovered that not all of them were annoying, teenage flirts and that some could sustain very intelligent conversation he had become much less avoidant of them. He just had never lusted after any of them, his wife included.

There were a few possibilities. Maybe he just hadn’t found the _right_ woman – though that one felt severely farfetched. Maybe he really wasn’t attracted to other people on a sexual level. Perhaps the unwitting scarring – from spending the years when he should have been a right basketcase of hormones instead too terrified to undress much of the time due to the tendency of a few of the more off-kilter Death Eaters to waltz in at any moment – had killed his desires.

Or there was another possibility, much more frightening in the fact that it would mean a severe restructuring of how he viewed himself. Perhaps he was simply not attracted to women. Perhaps he had been grateful to Pansy for helping to prevent others’ advances for a different reason. Perhaps there had been something behind the way he would feel more of a rush when joshing about with his male friends.

That line of thinking brought up a whole new set of disjointed images. The way he had no problem leaning over Blaise’s shoulder to show him something, when he would always keep his distance with a girl. The way he had lingered in the Quidditch showers, never correcting the general consensus that he was just vain and had to scrub every inch to perfection. The way he had been almost hyperaware of many of the volunteers during the rebuilding, many of whom had been men who were unafraid to remove their shirts in the heat. He’d thought maybe it had been simple envy, but that thought hadn’t always felt right; it had always felt as if something else was lurking at the edge of it. He really hadn’t minded much when they had bumped his shoulders in camaraderie or thrown a friendly arm around his neck or even that one fellow who had hugged him and joked he was a godsend when Draco had brought him some water.

Perhaps it was slightly possible the he might – maybe – sort of, kind of, possibly be attracted to men.

Admitting to such was just as terrifying as being unsure, he realized. _Maybe because I’m still uncertain. Maybe because it’s just a possibility, but not necessarily a reality._ He tried to wrack his brain for ways to prove it to himself – true or false. The alcohol was muddying the attempt a bit, but he kept at it.

Then, a thought struck him and his face heated. _Could I? Should I?_ He glanced around his empty bedchamber and bit his lip. His parents had taken Scorpius for the night and his wife would be passed out until at least mid-morning. His book-friends were in his study, and no one else was around. Well, save for the House Elves, but the barmy creatures were generally unobtrusive.

Inebriation dulled his embarrassment and strengthened his will. Slowly, he sat up and began to remove his overrobes. He pondered removing his shirt and trousers, but thought better of it. It wouldn’t do to add his body-shyness to the mix of issues and being so exhibitionistic would definitely do that. Sure, he wanked just fine in the shower, but that was a nicely enclosed space and not so open as his sprawling bedroom. And most everyone showered naked, but it was a bit different to faff about one’s room in the buff.

Slowly, he managed to unbutton his trousers, arguing with himself along the way about how this was a stupid idea, like most of his ideas. Also like most of his ideas, he was going to do it anyway. He shimmied them down a bit and pondered his pants for a moment before shimmying them down as well. He could deal with a bit of nudity for the sake of ease.

Lying down again and getting comfortable, he closed his eyes and let his hand creep down to tentatively cup himself. When he’d wanked before, he had usually just concentrated on the pleasurable sensations it caused. On occasion, once he had been with Astoria, he might imagine a warm, wet mouth or the tight heat around him as he thrust. He just hadn’t paid much mind to fantasizing about the person attached.

He slowly began to stroke himself to hardness. He Summoned the bottle of lubricant he kept hidden on his nightstand and applied a generous amount, a soft sound of approval leaving his throat as he felt the friction become a bit more pleasurable to bear. A part of him was tempted to abandon his stupid idea and just have a nice wank, but he stomped on it quite firmly. When he was certain that he was more than ready, he began to think.

There were the soft curves of a woman. Long hair might tangle around his fingers as long nails lightly danced across his skin. Paler coloring had always struck him as more beautiful on women, but he wasn’t about to think about where that perception of beauty might have come from while in such a position. He’d be careful not to hurt her or crush her beneath him. He let his other hand slowly begin to trace over his chest, softly like the touches Astoria had given him. He thought of the swell of breasts, the way they would feel cupped in his palm. How it would feel to press into her, wet and ready.

And he felt nothing, except a bit of ticklishness at the soft touches. It wasn’t deterring, really. He was still erect and aroused. He just…wasn’t any _more_ aroused. Really, it felt more like he was distracted. And it wasn’t like there was anything truly aesthetically unappealing about the female body – except perhaps the taste when Astoria made him do _that_ – so there was no disgust as he’d heard gay blokes sometimes talk about. There was nothing wrong with women – but he had confirmed that they didn’t excite him that way.

The next bit took a little more courage. He reached out blindly to locate his drink and down the rest of it. It settled a bit thickly in his stomach, but the rush of warmth soothed him. A few more strokes as he went back to focusing on the simple sensation, and then he was ready for round two.

He wasn’t certain what exactly to think about, so he started with some generalizations. Fit, but not too brawny – he’d never liked being dwarfed, even if certain hulking friends had always made him feel safer. Perhaps a bit lean like he was. He was drawn to the idea of coloring different from his – perhaps something darker to balance him and his paleness. Minimal body hair, but as for his locks – lots of it. Draco had always enjoyed the feel of soft hair slipping through his fingers; part of the reason he’d always had his hair gelled back in his youth was to keep from mussing it all the time. Perhaps his lover wouldn’t have his hair all that long, but it would be thick and soft.

Then there was his face. Draco was wary about defining it too much, not wanting to accidentally make it like someone he knew and then be forever awkward around that person. He left off the eyes when he couldn’t decide between lighter or darker ones. The jaw would be angular but not frightfully so, and the idea of there being a small patch of stubble here or there made Draco swallow hard. He moved his free hand to his face and could imagine that cheek sliding against his own, tickling his own blond, barely-there stubble.

His breathing increased as he let the images fill his mind. His free hand became his link to the man in his fantasy. Fingers – strong, sure, and short-nailed – would reach out to brush over his lips. They would firmly caress along his jaw and cup the back of his neck, sliding up to tangle and gently tug on Draco’s blond strands. And then the hand would slowly venture downward, taking its time.

Sliding over his shirt, it only felt so good. Carefully, the first couple buttons were undone and the hand was stealing in to play at his collarbone. Draco groaned, caught between shying away and arching into the touch. He barely registered popping free a few more buttons until those fingers could brush over one of his nipples. He gave a quiet gasp; they weren’t overly sensitive normally, but it still felt amazing. He gave first one and then the other a tiny tweak that had his breath stuttering, then smoothed over his chest with a flat palm.

He continued on, touching and tracing his way down the plane of his abdomen, skirting the lightly defined muscles there. They had faded a bit since his Quidditch days, but he was still trim; he liked to imagine that perhaps his lover had kept up with it, providing those little dips and valleys that made Draco salivate with the thought of dragging his tongue along those lines. He swallowed with difficulty, dragging his short nails across his stomach a bit harder than he’d done before. A small whimper escaped him, and he hastily did it again, leaving behind angry red marks all over his pale torso.

His hand finally came to rest on one hipbone, jutting up pointedly due to his reclined position. A soft caress had him squirming, and on a whim he clamped down his nails like a bite. A louder cry issued forth as his hips shot up off the chaise.

His strokes became a little more desperate, then, slipping quickly along his length. The slick noise didn’t faze him, he was so lost in the sensation. He let his free hand roam openly, touching here, squeezing there, scratching lightly, tweaking a nipple again before coming up to ghost over his mouth.

He pressed down hard, imagining kisses unlike anything he had shared before. Full of want and need, rough with passion. They’d kiss hard, practically mashing their teeth together before finding a better angle.

He moaned loudly, panting as the touches across his body built him up higher and higher. He kicked his restraining trousers and pants down to pool by his ankles so that he could spread his legs a bit and reach down to cup his testicles. He rolled them firmly but carefully in his hand, giving the occasional gentle tug. His hips bucked minutely every now and then, trying to increase the sensation washing over him.

A thought crept in, slowing his strokes just slightly as he pondered it. Sex with a man… He could readily picture that hard body pressed against his own, wrapping around him from below or weighing down on top of him. But could he…? His fingers twitched downward across his perineum, but he drew them back again a moment later.

Baby steps.

He wanted to imagine what it might be like to have his lover wrapped around him, encasing him in the tight heat that he was certain would feel much different from the wetness he’d experienced before. His body, however, was not willing to wait for him to play through that part of the fantasy. He was coming undone quickly, and he gave in to the revelry of it.

His lover would stroke him hard, nothing like the dainty caress of slim fingers. His mouth would travel over Draco’s skin, marking him here and there as was his wont. The strong body would surge above his, and Draco would give in and grasp at wide shoulders as his pants became sobs of increasing ecstasy. Draco’s hand came up to tangle in his hair, pulling steadily and insistently until he felt the prick of pain.

And then he came. His hips arched up clear off the chaise as the feeling tore through him. His mouth opened in a silent scream, his throat and chest tightening to the point of pain and refusing him the breath to make sound. Warm spots of wetness spattered their way up his lower torso as his hand felt a renewed slickness seep along where it slid. He continued in slow, tight strokes for a few more moments, milking himself of his release, and then tapered off when he became too sensitive to touch. His hand fell limp and splayed across his lower stomach as the rest of him went boneless. The hand in his hair released, resting on the small throw pillow above his head.

He lay there panting for some time, caught between lazily enjoying the moment of utter relaxation and trying to get his brain to function on a coherent level again. When he’d calmed a bit, he drew up his sticky hand, cringing at the feel of it separating from his stomach. He looked at the evidence of his release, smeared across his palm and fingers, threatening to slide down his wrist.

So that was it, then.

He hadn’t even taken a moment to think about it. He hadn’t needed to stop and pick at the thought. It had taken him and swept him away on that roiling, pleasurable _rightness_ and he hadn’t had the sense of mind to ponder about it. He gave one last after-shudder when he traveled back over the events that had transpired in his mind.

It took him awhile to really realize his state of debauchery. His trousers and pants were still hooked around one of his ankles, and his rumpled shirt was wide open and covering no more than a bit of his arms. His release was splattered up his torso and smeared across his groin. Patches of redness dotted his skin from his nails, where he had scratched and gripped and imagined biting kisses. His lips were a little sore from the abuse of his fingers and teeth, and he was certain his hair was a right mess.

He grinned and let go a short, quiet giggle – like a little boy having done something naughty.

Self-consciousness set in then and he reached over with his unsoiled hand to flick his wand in a few cleaning spells. His clothing was drug back on, though he had definite plans of stripping it all off and taking a shower in a bit. First, he had some thinking to do.

Ignoring his tired body’s objections, he levered himself up and padded his way to his study in his stockingfeet. He tended to think better in there, when he could pace or sit contemplatively behind his desk. He also owed a certain book both a huge apology and a tentative thank you.

He took Penha off the mantle and shuffled over to a wonderfully plush chair in the corner. He left Eshe there; it didn’t matter that she’d know whatever he told Penha, there were just some things that he wasn’t comfortable discussing in front of the formerly-female book.

“Yeeeees?” the book asked impishly as Draco was settling down, making Draco shake his head and chuckle. “I can feel something different in your demeanor, but I’m not quite certain what it is. I would hazard that you are here to talk about it?” he queried thoughtfully.

“You were right,” Draco said simply. The way he said the words clearly indicated he didn’t mean about the talking, but about something else entirely.

“I often am, and I’m glad you have finally begun to realize this,” the book replied haughtily. Draco snickered, wondering if he had rubbed off on the book in return during their years together. “But would you be so kind as to refresh my memory on what you had apparently doubted my wisdom about?”

Draco sighed, awkwardly trying to find a neutral way to bring up that night, then gave up. “When you were trying to get me to see something about myself. When I…lashed out at you,” he said guiltily.

Penha tilted to lean one of his covers against Draco’s hand in quiet acceptance. He’d long ago forgiven the man his reaction, and the simple gesture let it be known that there was nothing else that needed to be said about it. But he did require one thing. “So, what exactly was I right about?” he lead.

Draco shifted for a moment, nervous. He had come to the deduction quite clearly, but he hadn’t exactly spelled it out just yet. “I’m…not attracted to women, but not because I’m somehow scarred or asexual – or picky. Though I’m probably picky anyway,” he qualified. “But I think I’m– I mean, I might be–” He sighed, then swallowed hard. His liquid courage had drained from his system and left him tongue-tied. “What I meant to say is – I think – I might possibly…be attracted to men.” The last bit was said in a rush.

“Also known much more succinctly as being gay,” Penha surmised in an affected helpful tone. Draco shot him a Look, letting the book know just how much it was appreciated. Penha just laughed.

“Yes. Quite. I am aware of that,” Draco grit out, blushing.

“Nothing to be so hung up on, I assure you. Unless the Wizarding world is a much different place since last I heard, there’s not really anything to fret over. Except perhaps your marriage.” Penha paused for a moment, taking in Draco’s disheveled appearance, then carefully inquired, “Just how _did_ you come to this sudden understanding?”

“I’d rather not divulge the exact details,” Draco said with a blush that practically betrayed them anyway, “but let’s just say I gave it a _bit of thought_ and came to a…conclusion.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, looking anywhere but at the book.

Penha, graciously, decided not to tease. “Ahhh, I see. Is it all clear, then, or was there anything you needed assistance in clarifying?”

“I don’t really think there’s much you could do to help in that department,” Draco drawled.

“I could show you a few of the pictures others have scribbled on my pages,” he teased suggestively.

“Penha!” Draco shouted, face flaming. “You dirty old book! Oh Merlin, should I even be touching you? Just what have you been party to in the past, you tome of perversity!” Draco ranted good-naturedly, tossing the book up off his lap.

Penha laughed loudly, coming to hover before his charge. “Worry not, child, I think dirt, age, water, and fire have all managed to thoroughly cleanse me since the last time someone _dared_.” Draco snickered at the affronted tone toward the end, then remembered the charred husk in the fire and sobered. “But on a serious note: was there anything you wanted to talk out?”

Draco pursed his lips slightly, thinking. “It’s still a bit new, I guess. I’ve gone from being adamantly in denial to admitting that I’m fairly certain I’m…gay, all in one night. There are ramifications that I’m sure haven’t hit me yet. I’m relieved, but I’m also wary.”

“Relieved?”

“Yes,” Draco said with a nod. “It makes a fair deal of sense, now, why I never favored women with any sort of romantic affection, though I had thought I should. I feel calmer about why it was always so awkward or frustrating with Astoria when we…well.” Draco waved a hand, indicating without imitating the act of sex. “I’m not as troubled by why it felt wrong, at the least.”

“And are you going to…do anything about it? What happens with your marriage?” Penha asked gently, but curiously.

Draco sighed, carding a hand through his already tangled locks. “I’m not quite sure. I mean, well…” He paused, deliberating before just saying it aloud. “It’s one of those unspoken things in pureblooded society that sometimes spouses will come to an agreement – if they don’t love each other, they might quietly take up with others so long as there are no children produced from those unions. So many marriages are arranged, and they don’t always graduate into love. It’s a mutual agreement, but…” Draco trailed off, shifting uneasily.

“I don’t think I’m okay with that,” he revealed as it occurred to him. “I took my vows and made my promises. Even if she _were_ to agree, I wouldn’t be able to shake the feeling that I was somehow betraying the bond to my wife. And that, whether I was dating or had fallen in love, I’d have to keep that person like some dirty little secret and never tell a soul. I wouldn’t want that for myself, and it wouldn’t be fair to the other person.”

“It’s not fair to you either, being held where you cannot find love of your own,” Penha countered.

“I don’t think I could handle an affair, to be honest. Yes, I know, it’s not exactly an affair if the couple has agreed to some form of open relationship, but I would still feel like it. I don’t think that is even an option for me, really.” Draco sighed, toying with his fingers.

“I think you should still talk to Astoria about it. I know you don’t want to hurt her, but do recall what she had begun to think of herself before, that you just weren’t attracted to _her_. At least give her the truth and let her know that it’s because you don’t fancy _women_ , in general,” Penha stated firmly. “Perhaps you might finally understand each other, and maybe you’ll find it best to go your separate ways.”

Draco shook his head. “Maybe after Scorpius is grown, perhaps, but not now. Even if we can’t love each other that way, we both need to be here for him. I don’t want him to have to feel divided as he grows. I remember how much I clung to my mother as a child, and if Astoria and I were to separate it would possibly mean her leaving the manor. I won’t compromise that bond between mother and son, just as I would be appalled if she tried to separate me from him.”

“It will be seventeen years yet before he is grown and graduated. Will you really spend all that time alone? You would close yourself off from love that whole time?” Penha sounded sad, knowing Draco’s answer before he spoke it.

“I know my own needs are important too – as are Astoria’s – but his are and will always be moreso. I will do right by him by continuing on, but I will also do right by my wife and stay true.” It wrenched at him, leaving a heavy feeling in his stomach that had little to do with the syrupy concoction he’d imbibed earlier. “I will handle things as they come, but I accept now that this is the way it will be.”

“I don’t think that’s a choice you should really be making on your own, child. You should give her a say in this.” After a short silence, he quietly added, “I fear that if you don’t, it might come back to haunt you.”

Draco sighed, smiling tiredly at the book. “Perhaps. I’ll have to…think about it. I don’t know if I’m ready to tell anyone yet – aside from you. I might try to talk to her once I’m ready, but…” he trailed off.

Penha dipped in a nod. “Go and sleep now, child. You are looking like you need it.”

Draco thanked him, returning the book to his place beside his counterpart. He soaked himself under the spray of the shower for a few minutes before giving up and leaving a more thorough cleansing for the morning. He barely remembered hitting the pillow as he fell asleep, but the fleeting dreams he had that night had him waking with a smile.


	19. Loyalty and Honor

** Part Nineteen: **

At twenty-five, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Loyalty and Honor.

Draco had been stuck in meetings for most of the week. His parents had decided to take off on holiday for a little while before Scorpius’s birthday. They wanted to celebrate the end of Lucius’s house arrest by getting as far away from the manor as possible. Draco also suspected his mother had simply bought all the toys in Britain and thus had needed to go shop elsewhere for gifts. As a result, Draco was handling all of his father’s business details that couldn’t wait until the man returned. Exceptions had been made for Lucius Malfoy when he had been house-bound, but it was a different story for Draco, and he’d found himself Apparating all over the Isles to attend various councils.

It was Friday afternoon, and he was finally home. Save for an emergency, he was not likely to be called out again over the weekend, and his parents would be home after that. He heaved a sigh of relief, then groaned at the idea that one day his father would retire and this would be Draco’s normal life. At least Scorpius would be grown then.

A tired smile lighting his features, his steps quickly took him from the front parlor to his son’s rooms. A frown etched his face as he heard a commotion and his footfalls increased. He flung open the doors to find no less than five panicking House Elves attempting to soothe the inconsolable child. Draco rushed forward quickly, scooping his son into his arms.

Scorpius clung to him immediately and Draco did a quick check to make certain the boy wasn’t hurt. The House Elves all started babbling at him at once, and it took a growled command to quiet them so that Pippy – Scorpius’s nursemaid – could explain.

“Oh, Master Draco, Pippy is being sorry! Mistress Astoria has told Pippy and everyone to stay out of her room! We is not to go there for any reason, she said. Little Master started to cry, but Mistress Cissy and Master Lucius were not here and so Pippy had no one to bring him to! He is not liking of Pippy, Pippy is not good enough as Masters and Mistresses. I is sorry, Master! Nipsy and Slinky and Totsy and Eppy tried to help Pippy, but we is not pleasing to Little Master!” The House Elf broke down into tears, tugging at her ears to try to hide her face.

Draco looked at the five stricken faces around him and sighed. “Don’t worry, Pippy. It’s not your fault. He doesn’t like it when humans aren’t around, you aren’t to be blamed for that.” Draco slightly wondered if they’d spoiled the boy, but let it pass for the moment. “Don’t punish yourself – any of you,” he said sternly, eying the five sets of wide, bulbous eyes.

“Oh, thank you, Master! You is so kind to Pippy, to us!” the House Elf cried, clutching at the hem of Draco’s robe.

He sent them off quickly before they all started trying to cling to him. Daft creatures, indeed. His focus returned to his son, who was still crying but had lost much of his steam. He was hiccupping every other breath, burying his wet, snotty face against Draco’s shoulder. Draco rocked the boy gently, whispering soothing words and endearments as he did so. He took his usual spot in the rocking chair, pressing a soft kiss to his son’s head as he settled.

“There, now, it’s not so bad. Shh, shh, little love,” he breathed next to the tiny ear. As that pressing matter settled, Draco began to think about the other issue at hand. Anger seethed at Astoria for leaving Scorpius alone, knowing full well what he was like. But then, suddenly, a spike of fear lanced through him. He stood as quickly as possible without jostling the child drifting off on his shoulder, taking long strides down various halls and up a set of stairs to Astoria’s personal chambers.

He’d recalled reading about postpartum depression in his books, but he had never thought that it might have affected Astoria. She had looked happy – but she was a Slytherin, same as he. Her decline in sexual interest and increased interest in alcohol hadn’t worried him, but he could kick himself now. Depression was a well-known dampener to one’s sex drive. Draco hadn’t paid attention to how often Astoria might have been drinking, as she didn’t seem to get out of hand with it and had only become intoxicated at a few rare parties.

And now she had ordered the House Elves out of her rooms, not to interrupt her for anything.

Draco swore as he dismantled the wards on the doors, unlocking and opening them. As soon as they were free, he wrenched at the handle and dashed in. “Astoria! Are you alright?!” he cried out worriedly upon entering. When he finally got a look around, he stopped short and felt the blood drain from his face.

Astoria looked fine. Oh, she looked more than fine. A bit surprised, really. It was the man in her bed who looked like he was about to have a heart attack.

Draco’s mind stuttered to a halt. He stood there with his mouth hung open, the gears in his mind trying to break free and comprehend what he was seeing. Finally, it hit him.

She was having an affair.

She hadn’t worked as hard to get in Draco’s trousers – not because she was content or depressed, but because she had apparently found another set she found appealing. The contraceptive potions hadn’t been because of fear – or at least not solely. She had seemed happier – and who wouldn’t, enjoying the life she lead while having a bit on the side?

It took a moment before Draco could identify the other man as Antoine Morgan. He’d been a Ravenclaw Chaser in Astoria’s year at Hogwarts. He’d been among the guests who had attended their wedding, offering his congratulations. He’d been over to celebrate Scorpius’s birth with them. He’d shown up at various events over the years, but Draco had paid him no mind, and he thought Astoria hadn’t either.

Terrified concern shredded apart and boiled itself into rage. “Just what. The fuck. Is going on. Astoria?” he grit out through clenched teeth.

“What do you think?” she replied in exasperation. “Honestly, Draco, why are you so upset?” Her beau’s eyes flicked between them warily, the expression on his face clearly indicating he was torn between flight and staying as still as possible to avoid notice.

Draco’s eyes felt like they were going to bug from his face like the House Elves’ from earlier. “Why am I upset?!” he hissed, not wanting to yell and wake Scorpius. “Why the fuck do you _think_ I’m upset? I’ve only just walked in on my wife in bed with another man!” he snapped, grinding his teeth together.

Astoria rolled her eyes and sat up, tucking the sheet around her in a laughable attempt at modesty. “Oh spare me, Draco. We both knew that we weren’t in love with each other. I tried, really, but it happens.” She shrugged, raising her eyebrows at the furious man before her. “I gave you an heir as was my duty. Now I’m thinking about my own wants.”

Draco took a long blink, and then another, trying to calm himself. “You took vows to me. I welcomed you into my home. You shared my bed for three years. And now you do this?!” he seethed.

Astoria sighed again. “Draco, don’t be an idiot. Please? Your intelligence was what I liked about you,” she said without rancor. “It wasn’t meant to be – I think we both figured that out right before I realized I was pregnant. It’s not like I’ve broken your heart, darling.”

“And how can you know that?” he spat, eyes narrowed. It was true, but that wasn’t the point at all.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, Draco! For awhile I thought that it was me, but then I saw the way you would react. It didn’t take much to realize that you’d probably much prefer to have Antoine here under you than me,” she said with a light laugh.

Draco vaguely remembered liking her laugh once, but right then it made him want to shred something. “Never thought to share that bit of insight, did you?” he asked lowly. “It took me nearly three years of trying to make you happy to realize it myself.”

Astoria blinked as if surprised. “Are you serious?” When Draco’s glare only intensified, she shook her head. “I had thought you had figured it out long before taking up with me.”

“And this somehow seems to make having an affair justified in your mind.”

“Merlin!” she cried in exasperation. “I know you’re a bit prudish in general, Draco, but really! It is what is done, in our circle – you know that! I did my duty, and then I made certain that I wouldn’t bear the child of another man to bring shame on us and cross the bloodlines any more than necessary.” She said it so matter-of-factly that Draco winced. How often had he himself heard those particular lines about his duty? “I figured it was only your own sexual reservation that kept you from taking another to your bed.”

“No, it was my _honor_. I took my vows to you, and one of them was a promise of loyalty. I would never have betrayed you. I did my best to make you happy, even before I understood things myself. Hell, I only came to terms with it recently – I was beating myself up over the discussion I knew I owed you.” His voice was stilted, even, and cold. Not once had he donned the veneer of the Malfoy mask when dealing with his wife – until now. He wouldn’t let her see how much she’d wounded him, even if she would now know that she had.

“Draco,” she said softly, as if trying to make him see reason.

“You never spoke to me, Astoria. Not once,” he continued. “I would have stayed loyal to you for as long as we shared a bond. I would have given you all of me that I could.” He took a deep breath. “You never even discussed it with me. Even amongst those of _our circle_ ,” he enunciated nastily, “who engage in such activities as you speak, it is the result of _mutual understanding_. You never said a word, and so I trusted you to be as devoted as I. You have irreparably broken that trust.” He refused to look at her, his eyes burning holes in the floor between them instead.

There was a long pause, and then he quietly growled, “Get out.”

“Excuse me?” Astoria asked, certain she’d misheard the soft command.

“I said… _get_ … _OUT_!” he snarled out loudly. He readjusted as the tiny form shifted in his arms, but otherwise didn’t move.

“But Draco–!” Astoria began.

“Do _not_ speak to me as if I am being unreasonable. You have brought another man,” he took a moment to sneer at the frozen Antoine, “into _my home_ and betrayed me in the room that _I_ provided for you. Get the fuck out of my house, and take your filthy excuse of a man with you!”

“You ARE being unreasonable! The things people will say if we–!”

“You should have thought about that beforehand. Leave, or I will have the House Elves throw you out. I will send your things to your parents’ residence within the day. I will send you the documents to nullify our union within the week. You want your freedom? Have it. You are not in a position to negotiate.” He straightened to his full height, glaring coldly down at the shocked woman before him. He had been called the Ice Prince once for a reason – the chillingly emotionless look his grey eyes would take on. He turned the full force of that look on his wife, and she quailed under it.

Turning quickly, he strode from the room. He wasn’t going to stay around to make sure she was gone. As he marched his way across the manor, he called up a House Elf and told him that Astoria was no longer their Mistress and that she had exactly one hour to vacate the premises. If she was still there after that, they were to forcibly remove her. If such an action could not be completed, then he was to be informed and would take care of it himself.

He didn’t stop or even slow until he was able to stalk into his study. Two books floated up off his mantle, but he paid them no mind. He knew that fury was rolling off of him, but underneath it was the jagged edge of hurt. He hadn’t been in love with her, no, but he had loved her as friend and as a partner. He had loved her as the mother of his child. And she hadn’t even thought twice about betraying him.

“Damn her!” he snarled to the air, his body beginning to shake as he paced, fury and anguish colliding and competing for dominance.

“Draco?” Penha began hesitantly.

“Little one, what’s wrong?” Eshe chimed in. Even she sounded worried.

Stopping for a moment to face them, he choked out a response. “Astoria. She has apparently been cheating on me – for months.” He resumed pacing until he heard an anxious flutter. He rounded on Penha, hoping to cut the book off before he could say anything. “If you so much as whisper, scribble, flutter, or even _indicate_ an ‘I told you so,’ so help me I will LET the garden gnomes have you!” he threatened.

Pages flared out in a mixture of shock and fright, then settled back into place. “I would never, Draco,” Penha said quietly.

Draco practically fell into a chair then, taking care to support Scorpius as he did. “I know,” he replied weakly. He closed his eyes in misery, and a soft weight told him that the books had settled to rest on his lap. “I– I thought…” His throat closed up on the rest of that sentence, and he fought against the emotion that tried to overtake him.

“You thought she felt the same as you did. You thought she thought the same way you do. Oh, child, I’m so sorry.” The book sounded so remorseful that Draco reached out to pat his cover. He found his fingers enveloped between pages instead, squeezed tightly but carefully.

“I threw her out,” he said in a small voice. “Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I did. I told her I would be divorcing her. Shit, there is probably going to be a scandal, but I’m _still_ too angry to care. She might tell everyone that I’m– I mean, well, I am, but that shouldn’t be how it–!” He gave a guttural noise of frustration. “I don’t know what I’m going to do.” He knew he sounded meek, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not in front of Eshe and Penha, at least. Scorpius was, thankfully, too young to understand.

“First, you are going to calm down,” Eshe lectured. “And then you are going to write to your parents. Before you start trying to feel guilty, think about how you would react if Scorpius were to write you and say he needed you; they will not detest you for it, and I assure you they would rather you interrupt their holiday instead of suffering alone. They will help you with the legal aspects, and your mother will do whatever damage control she can – and even _I_ am amazed at the things that woman can accomplish.” Draco gave a weak smile, nodding along.

“And after you finish that letter, you are going to go to Pansy and Neville’s. They are your friends and will be there for you. We love being here for you, but I think you need a better hug than a couple of books can give,” she added kindly. Draco nodded, burying his face against his son’s little shoulder.

“It will be all right, Draco,” Penha soothed. “Everything will work out, I promise.”

Draco nodded again tightly, and then he found a little hand patting his cheek. “Papa? Okay?” Scorpius pressed his face sloppily against Draco’s cheek, his imitation of a kiss. A dam broke in Draco and he finally let his hurt be felt. He drenched the shoulder of his son’s clothing as the tears leaked out, and a couple sobs wracked his frame. The attempted gentle patting never let up throughout. Eventually, Draco turned his head to capture and kiss that little hand, clutching his son a little tighter.

“Yes, baby. Papa will be okay.”


	20. Freedom and Friendship

** Part Twenty: **

At twenty-six, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Freedom and Friendship.

Draco reclined lazily in his chair, stretching his toes out toward the fire and wiggling them happily. The rather large snifter of brandy in his hand was doing wonders for helping him into his relaxed stated.

It was already his birthday again, and it had been a hell of a year. Draco pondered making it a tradition to review his life every year as the clocked ticked past midnight to his special day. _Having a nice drink in hand should also be included in that tradition_ , he thought decisively, taking another sip of brandy.

The divorce would have gone smoothly, but the Greengrasses had decided to kick up a fuss. Astoria’s father had publicly shouted at Draco, accusing him of trying to shame his daughter. Draco had coolly responded that any shame she felt was her own doing. Astoria had pitched in then, outing him as gay to the busy street. Draco had given a smile that didn’t reach his eyes and said, “And? Your point?” Astoria had spluttered until Draco had tacked on, “That didn’t give you any authorization to find a lover who isn’t.” Draco had walked away then, his head held high, leaving the family to deal with the stares and whispers from the crowd that had begun to gather at the first accusation. Internally, he was doing a jig and patting himself on the shoulder, having finally attained his father’s level when it came to accepting and returning insult.

There had been a few articles and plenty of speculation about Draco, but on the whole the public had been kind. He hadn’t broken any moral code, and had done as his pureblood lineage had dictated and entered into an arranged marriage to produce an heir. Many also knew of his contributions to the revival of the WAR Foundation, and that had been set heavily in his favor. The press hadn’t been as kind to Astoria, but gradually they forgot about her.

Scorpius was nearing his second birthday and had turned into a demon. A lovable demon – at least to Draco and Narcissa – but a demon nonetheless. Draco wondered if it would get worse when he _actually_ entered his ‘terrible twos.’ He had learned to run, and Draco was often left wondering how a being with such tiny legs consistently managed to outpace a man of his stature. Simple sentences fell from his lips with ease – especially ones containing all those words that parents everywhere would prefer their children not to repeat. Messes abounded, and Draco would have sworn that the child was surrounded by a whirlwind wherever he went.

Draco had repeatedly looked at his mother and sincerely apologized for if he had ever been _half_ as troublesome.

The relationship between Draco and Astoria might have been strained, but he still insisted that Scorpius spend a little time with his mother every week. Draco had gotten primary custody of Scorpius as a small paragraph had thankfully indicated in their prenuptial agreement, but had graciously allowed full visitation rights to Astoria so that she could still have a place in the child’s life. And then she had moved to the Continent to escape the press, and he hadn’t insisted so hard. He would dutifully hand Scorpius over if she let him know that she would be in town, if they didn’t already have plans, but that was all he would do. If she didn’t make the effort, then for Scorpius’s sake she wasn’t worth it.

The first month after the divorce had seen Draco go through the stages. Isolation, sulking, anger, and loneliness had come and gone, and he had effusively thanked his friends and family for putting up with him as they dragged him forward through it. Without Astoria around to spend time with or to do things for, he found himself with a surplus of free time.

As much as he enjoyed Potions, it was Astoria who had pushed him to get his Mastery, so he was a bit slower to approach the subject again. He did eventually take it up once more, but instead of going back to his courses he played around and experimented like he had when he was younger. He dusted off his room full of magical experiments as well, rereading all of his old notes and research. He was able to correct certain things in them now, as well as answer many of the questions he’d thought of before. Some of the questions itched at him still, and he began testing his theories again.

His father gave him a rather large distraction as well. A drink and a talk in his study had led to a discussion on politics, and they had commiserated and debated on several issues. Lucius was a convincing man, but Draco managed to turn even his mind around in a few of their debates. It was an offhanded comment about Draco not liking one law very much that egged Draco to action. “If you don’t like it, then lobby against it,” Lucius had shot at him flippantly. And so he did. He stuck his foot into the debates and wrote more than a handful of letters, defending and promoting those things he was for as well as opposing and picking apart those he was against.

It had been liberating, to say the least. To put forth an effort toward something he believed in – and to see a real result – it buoyed him. He’d had a small portion of that with the WAR Foundation, but this was on another level entirely. This was not just helping those he could, but actively working to shape his world into something he believed in. He wasn’t a politician at heart, but he liked being a part of a better change.

After seeing some of his notes on magical theory, Narcissa had also prompted Draco to publish some of his findings in a scholarly journal. He’d been nervous, but his tentative dealings in politics had set him a structure of mental support. He received a startling amount of mail regarding his findings, and had happily edged his way into the scholarly sector. One dissertation led to another, and he was able to set forth many proposals that he didn’t have the means or knowledge to tackle himself.

It was at this time that he had attracted the notice of MAC – the Magical Advisory Council. It had begun in the years after the war when certain witches and wizards had noticed a dearth in the amount of magical organization. They argued that arbitrarily destroying knowledge and artifacts – even those labeled as ‘Dark’ – was a detriment to the Wizarding world. What was instead needed was a sophisticated way of understanding the magic involved.

Several subdivisions had sprung up underneath them, from research to development. Formulaic problems were applied to every spell encountered, mapping how it linked to other spells and discovering the possibilities of counters, shields, and cures. Potions had received much of the same treatment. The international societies dealing with many magical Masteries eventually affiliated themselves with the council, sharing their knowledge in return for the linked knowledge that other areas of study could offer them.

One Monday morning, Draco had received a letter inviting him to sit on the sub-council dealing with the legalities of certain forms of magic. A recent dissertation on the link between the Cruciatus Curse and various anesthetic spells used in modern Healing, and what it meant for the magical community, was the trigger that had caused it. It had been signed by one Hermione Jean Granger-Weasley, Chairwoman of the Legalities of Magical Interaction and Vice-Chairwoman of the Magical Advisory Council.

To say he was intrigued was an understatement.

He quickly wrote back to tentatively accept. His first meeting, he was greeted with a few odd looks, but his passion for the intricacies of magic quickly turned heads. He came alive in those meetings. One day, when he was arguing the pros and cons of powdered bicorn horn and whether it was acceptable to cull the beasts for that reason, he realized that he had found his calling. He got to do his own research – sometimes with a team helping him – and scholars worldwide were practically throwing knowledge at him _almost_ faster than he could read. His one-time hobby had gained him international renown as a scholar. His natural curiosity and argumentative nature had finally found him his niche.

He never would have believed where he now found himself, if anyone had told him a decade prior. But seven months, thirteen days, four hours, eight minutes, and several dozen cups of tea after receiving the letter, he had happily found himself discussing family and their respective children with a heavily pregnant Hermione. She wasn’t due for another couple months, but her son had practically ballooned within her. Scorpius had enjoyed playing with her daughter Rose, and it warmed Draco to see the two getting up to toddler-sized mischief together.

His birthday party had been a wonderful affair. Greg and Millicent had brought their own two little ones, a daughter just younger than Scorpius and a newborn son. Hermione had dragged her husband along with the promise that he would behave himself, and he had Draco had actually managed to have a polite – if slightly strained – conversation under the woman’s watchful gaze. Anastasia had come, looking so much younger and livelier than the first time Draco had met her. Blaise had dropped in, bringing a slew of beverages from the vineyards he had been overseeing on the Continent. Neville and Pansy had of course been there, carrying on and spoiling the little ones rotten by giving them sweets before _and_ after dinner. Hermione had threatened revenge for when the two finally procreated, at which Pansy had heartily laughed. Andromeda and Teddy had returned again with big smiles and abounding energy. Draco had sneakily planted Eshe and Penha nearby, so that they too could be included in the festivities.

This year it had been Pansy who had broken the party up by needing to be dragged off. Neville had managed to pry her away from her molestation of Hermione’s stomach with the promise that he would gladly help her get one of her own starting that night if she let go. Draco had laughed loudly, wondering if Pans would regret that in the morning. He was fairly certain that Neville wouldn’t unless Pansy really was as vicious in bed as Draco had often liked to theorize.

His parents had kidnapped his son again this year, but this time with the intention of letting Draco sleep in for once. He was entirely certain there would still be an almost-two-year-old bouncing into his bed to wake him up with the sun, no matter what wards his parents tried to set, but he was okay with that. He never objected to a morning spent cuddling his baby boy, even when it was precipitated by a foot accidentally kicking him in the face.

He weighed the events of the past year and came out with the belief that it had overall been a tremendous success.

As the clock struck two, he toasted himself and downed the last of his snifter. He had a very nifty – if super secret – birthday gift to himself that he wanted to try, and he smiled wickedly as he stumbled over to his chaise to play with it. The smile on his face as he fell asleep that night was _totally_ worth the hangover he was certain he’d have in the morning.


	21. Hatred

** Part Twenty-One: **

At twenty-six, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Hatred.

Draco had been invited to one of the small Wizarding colleges that had cropped up in recent times. They wanted him to do a weeklong series of lectures on the developments of certain charms and countercurses that were changing the way wizards looked at magic. He had happily accepted, looking forward to the visit.

He had contacted several members of his extended family on both sides, hoping to get to see a few of them that he hadn’t seen since before the war started. He’d extended his stay to three weeks when he got the replies back so that he could have two reserved for visiting. Grudgingly, he had also contacted Astoria, asking if she would like to spend time with Scorpius while Draco was spending the week on his lectures. Preparation of the lecture materials was going to be a handful in and of itself, and he would like to make sure he got enough sleep on the nights between. As such, he availed himself to a week without his son.

Astoria had become a drastically different woman from the girl he had met at Hogwarts. He had at one point been glad to see her developing a greater sense of confidence and breaking out of her shell. He perhaps hadn’t seen the downside to that until the day he found her in bed with another man. In the wake of her scandal she had changed yet more. Her reputation had been damaged, but it had also been entirely fixable. She instead had gone the complete opposite direction.

Draco was wary of the lovers he’d heard she kept, and of the influence those men had on her. He had exacted a promise from her that she wouldn’t let Scorpius be around them while he was with her, but he was still reluctant to hand the two-year-old over. Nevertheless, Draco had squashed his son in a hug and showered him in kisses, then exchanged ‘I love you’s before dropping him off.

The lectures had been going swimmingly. The faculty, students, and handful of walk-ins that had attended had been eager and full of questions. He had fun exercising his slightly-rusty French skill, and the assembly had been very helpful in supplying him with the equivalent research terms that he didn’t know. His unease had been a whisper in the back of his mind, and until the fifth day he had managed to ignore it. When he woke in the middle of the night in a panic, he finally gave in and went to check on his son. He was partly praying that everyone would be asleep, safe in bed.

When he got to Astoria’s cottage, a dour House Elf had shown him in and asked him to wait while she retrieved the Mistress of the house. He’d been ready to comply, but then he heard a muffled shriek that had him ignoring the House Elf’s babbling as he strode his way menacingly through the house. He would know that shriek anywhere, after the two years of raising the fussy toddler through tantrums and nightmares.

The House Elf had finally disappeared with a squeak and a pop when he’d snarled at her; he would have felt badly otherwise, but the blasted creature was grasping at him and trying to keep him from his son. It took him a moment of peering around before he finally found the rear doors ajar, leading out into a small, neat courtyard. He heard the shriek again as he stepped through the doors, and what he saw made his blood boil.

Now, Draco had hated people before. He had hated the Dark Lord for certain, and quite a few of the Death Eaters had made it on that list as well. He had claimed hatred for several people over the years that had royally pissed him off, though most times it had simply been a matter of intense – and sometimes momentary – dislike.

But Draco wasn’t certain that he had ever hated anyone so much as he did right now.

A wizard was standing in the courtyard, laughing loudly as he flicked his wand to and fro. His staggering stance and glazed expression showed that he was at the very least drunk, and had possibly partaken of several more illicit substances. He was making noises that sounded faintly like ‘zoom-zoom!’ as he wavered. What made Draco hate the idiot was that he was levitating Scorpius in the air, jolting him around as if he was flying. Scorpius, on the other hand, was screaming with tears pouring down his face, looking absolutely terrified.

Vases broke. A chandelier splintered. The glass in the French doors shattered. The rugs, grass, and doorframe around Draco singed. For a moment in time, Draco was absolutely certain the he was going to kill that man.

“Draco!” Astoria called happily when the noise alerted her of his presence. She giggled from where she had sprawled upsidedown on a lounge chair. Draco flicked his eyes to her for a moment, lip curling in disgust. The woman had never been able to hold her alcohol well, and who knew what else she had imbibed in addition to that.

“Put. My son. _Down_ ,” he growled loudly but slowly, his glare switching back to center intensely on the strange man. Draco was afraid to do anything to the man while he still had control of Scorpius. One hex could make his son fall from the twenty to thirty feet he was darting around at, as could a break in concentration. Draco was reluctant to try to cast any sort of charm that would snatch his son out of the air, as the conflicting charms could hurt the boy by pulling him in two directions at once.

The man looked at him and blinked, then smiled widely. “Non, we are just ‘aving a bit of fun! ‘E likes it!” he slurred in a heavy French accent.

“ _NOW_ ,” Draco bellowed dangerously.

“Tch, fine zen!” the man replied, rolling his eyes. He lowered Scorpius much too fast for his father’s liking, and Draco dashed forward to grab hold of the boy as soon as he was low enough. No sooner did he have the child in hand before he let loose a blast of blue light that hit the man square in the chest. He was hurled back against the stone wall of the enclosed courtyard with a satisfying thud, and Draco clutched his shivering, wailing wreck of a son to his chest. Astoria had shrieked in surprise, but then laughed at the ragdoll of a man who had fallen. The man wouldn’t be dead from that, unless the impact had shattered something. Draco had pulled together enough common sense to see that killing the man would do no good when he could instead make him _suffer_.

Draco lowered Scorpius so that his little bare feet could touch the ground when he deciphered some of the fear-slurred babble as, “Too high! Too high! Too high!” The boy had shuddered, his agitation visibly lessening as his toes curled tightly in the grass.

“Shh, shh, baby. Papa’s here. I’m so sorry, Score,” he whispered fiercely, using the nickname that his little second cousin had given the boy. “I promise you, that will never happen again. No more. Never.” He hugged his son fiercely, ignoring the inebriated babble of his ex-wife.

“Scorpius, we’re going to go inside now. Papa has to make a Floo-call, okay?” he asked gently, easing the boy onto his hip and rising slowly. Little hands fisted in his robes as the boy clung to him, agitation rising with every inch. Draco held him just as tightly, keeping up a calming mantra of soothing words and encouragement as they walked back inside and past the scattered shards of glass, crystal, and ceramic.

Draco hollered for the House Elf, then coldly told the shivering creature to point him to the nearest Floo-connected fireplace he could make a call from. A few moments later he was sitting Scorpius next to him and leaning forward to speak with the French Ministry’s version of law enforcement. French Aurors quickly stepped through, followed shortly by a petite witch from the department dealing with child services.

Draco told them everything in precise detail, holding his son close. The boy refused to be removed from him to speak with the witch, so she ended up conducting a sort of interview with him even while Draco was present. “I don’t like him,” he said, referring to the strange man. “He made Maman drink stuff. It smelled icky. Maman laughed lots after she drinked it.” Draco didn’t have the heart to correct his grammar this time. Scorpius refused to say anything more about the levitation experience, turning white and trying to hide in Draco’s robes when the woman mentioned him ‘going up high.’ She had said she would try to get a Pensieve memory from all three of the adults to confirm the situation, but it was likely that Draco would have no issue winning a suit to grant him full custody with no visitation rights for Astoria.

For a long time Draco had resisted separating Scorpius from his mother, but that night had sealed it. He would do anything within his power to make sure that the woman couldn’t set foot near his son until the boy was old enough to decide that for himself – and hopefully to defend himself.

After another hour, both of them were fading fast, and the Aurors allowed him to go back to his hotel for the night. They’d secured a promise from him that he would come by the department as soon as his lectures finished the next day before they let him go. Draco, much calmer now, had more kindly asked the House Elf to gather Scorpius’s things together, and then they were off.

Draco had thought about using the Floo Network, given how tired he was, but the sensation of floating through the tubes and getting spit out the other end would likely traumatize Scorpius more at that moment. The thought was sobering enough to snap him awake, and he Apparated them back to his hotel lobby. Draco had saved a bath for them both for the morning, when they were likely going to need the refreshment. Changing them both, he crawled into bed and curled up protectively around his son.

The remaining two lectures had been a bit more trying due to lack of sleep, but his audience had taken kindly to the ‘little helper’ who had stuck close to him throughout both days. Scorpius had been quieter and slightly intimidated by the much taller adults, hiding behind Draco’s legs. Normally, Draco would have lifted him up and the bright child would chatter on and on to even these strangers, but he still got a bit scared being raised even that high.

When the week ended, Draco was thankful to go to his warm, welcoming relatives. They doted on the boy, mindful of Draco’s warning about lifting him slowly. Draco’s solicitor had gotten back to him as well, saying that he would have the custody paperwork filed within the month. By the end of the next two weeks, Draco had relaxed the vice that had gripped his heart and Scorpius had opened back up into the bubbly little menace he was.

But he was still afraid of heights.


	22. Attraction

** Part Twenty-Two: **

At twenty-six, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Attraction.

Draco straightened his attire one last time as the stones rumbled and slid apart. Draco stepped through the doorway into the small alley and watched the wall slide back together again. He had been told that once he knew how things worked he might not be as fascinated by them; moments like this one made him wish he had retorted that that those things would only fascinate him more. His lips turned up in just the barest of smiles as he stepped into the back door of the Leaky Cauldron.

It still felt odd to not wear robes out in public, but he had resigned himself to feeling awkward all day. He had spotted a beautiful glass sculpture shop that he wanted to check for gifts for his mother while he’d been walking through Muggle London with Hermione the week before. His friend had spent the six months since her delivery on some sort of health kick, determined to gain back her pre-baby body – and energy. Draco had been wary about joining her on one of her walks, since they often talked work even when they weren’t working, but Hermione had assured him that the Muggles around them would either think they were discussing something scientific and over the average man’s head or debating about the mechanics of the fictional universe of some fantasy novel or game.

Hermione had assured him that most of the crisp clothing he wore under his overrobes was suitable for venturing out amongst Muggles, even if it did seem a bit fancy. Draco had snorted, straightening his tie exaggeratedly. Hermione had rolled her eyes and treated him to one of her ‘Oh, honestly!’ exclamations.

It was just as the lunch rush was winding down, so the pub had quickly emptied as usual. Draco smiled at Tom, pondering getting a drink before dealing with the noisy, crowded, polluted streets of the Muggle part of the city. His eyes flicked around the room unconsciously, habit formed more than a decade ago rearing its head, but they centered in on one person in particular. Draco paused, looking the man over.

He hadn’t seen much of Potter since their schooldays. He heard the occasional story here and there through the grapevine – Neville and Hermione mentioned him often. After a particular article that had made Draco laugh aloud – in which Potter had politely but stridently told the press to fuck off – they had stopped following the daily activities of their hero. Sure, things still popped up now and again when something big happened, and of course every event that garnered his presence had made mention of it – but things were much quieter.

Potter looked a bit pale and drawn as he shuffled through a bunch of papers spread haphazardly across the back booth’s table. Draco wasn’t really surprised. The last article he’d read about Potter before the man’s solicitors had made threats to the papers was about his messy divorce the previous January. It was nearing the end of March, but the man still looked tired and wan.

Dithering for a moment, Draco made a decision. Motioning to Tom, he ordered two large ales and paid, then made his way over to the booth. Draco made certain he found a clear spot between papers, then set the glass down gently so that it wouldn’t startle the other man. When Potter looked up in surprise, Draco gave him a wry grin. “Looked like you needed it.”

Shock flashed across the other man’s tired visage, then he barked a weak laugh. “Yeah. Thanks. Probably.”

“May I?” Draco asked, motioning toward the opposite side of the table.

“Oh! Certainly, be my guest,” Potter replied quickly, shuffling a bit of the mess of parchments away from that side to give Draco table space. “Sorry, my mind was elsewhere.”

Draco kept in check the comment about Potter having a mind. His jests usually had little barb nowadays, but most of his friends were used to that; Potter wasn’t. “So it seemed. Might I ask?” he inquired, gesturing toward the papers. He had seen the Gringotts seal on some of them, but was actively attempting to keep his curiosity at bay and not pry.

“Er,” Potter hesitated, shoulders tensing and eyes flicking across the table in rapid thought. Then he seemed to deflate and motioned Draco on. “I never did sit down and figure out what exactly was in my accounts after graduation,” he explained. “Molly said I should get out of the house more, so I’ve been sitting here attempting to get it sorted for…awhile.” The expression of annoyance he shot the documents made Draco give a silent chuckle.

“I surely can’t imagine it would be that difficult?” Draco wondered at the Weasley matriarch still doting on Potter, but left off. He remembered how his mother had dragged him out of the manor in the wake of his divorce all too well.

“If it was just galleons, then no. What I’m stuck on are all the other random things in there. I swear, it’s as if my ancestors had never heard of organization!” he grumbled, glaring at the documents in front of him.

Draco’s interest piqued. “Random things? Like what?”

He looked at Draco warily for a moment, biting his lip, then seemed to decide on something. Draco was curious as to what, but remained silent and attentive. “There’s about a million vases, several dozen pieces of so-called art, heaps of jewelry, and a whole slew of furniture. Some of it is obviously expensive, where other pieces boggle me. I mean, I’ve managed to figure out that this one unassuming chest of drawers is a bit of a relic, despite how decrepit it looks,” he said gustily.

“A lot of it I have no use for, but I don’t really feel comfortable selling it or giving it away. Sure, maybe it’s just some fancy urn, or maybe it’s something important to my family history. I just can’t tell what is gaudy nonsense and what is some great-great-great-great-great-aunt thrice-removed’s prized poodle hairbrush, or something.” Draco laughed. Sadly, having known some barmy old witches, he could entirely believe that. “I’m tempted to move all the galleons into one vault and try to sort the rest of it slowly, but I’m wary of that, too.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Why so? I know you’re wealthy, Potter, but I assure you: they have caves large enough,” he drawled in response.

Potter chuckled. “Not that, you prat,” he said offhandedly. “But I’ve come to realize that even some of the galleons have been spelled, namely the ones in this one chest. Turned my hand green for a week,” he said grumpily. “That’s _another_ issue: trying to figure out what items are exactly what they seem and what are actually magical items – and what they do.”

“Hermione could probably help you with that one, you know.” Potter seemed surprised when Draco used their friend’s given name, then gave a small smile. Draco would swear up and down to anyone in existence – including Penha – that he didn’t preen. “You do know what we do, right?” he teased gently.

Potter glared, but it was half-hearted. “Yes, of course I do. Back when I was still intent on going through Auror training, I was the one who brought up the point after a training session dealing with Dark artifacts.” His grin was downright devilish when Draco’s eyes widened. “You did know that, didn’t you?” he asked with mock-sweetness, and Draco idly wondered how much time the man had spent in the company of Pansy.

He scowled at the bit of turnabout, just barely resisting the childish urge to stick out his tongue. “I wasn’t aware, no. You aren’t on any of the councils, though, are you?” Draco brows were drawn together in curiosity. He had never recalled seeing Potter’s name anywhere, but that didn’t make it impossible.

“Sort of. I’ve done some work with the research and development sub-sects. Poring over books for hours on end isn’t generally my forte,” he ignored Draco’s snort, “but casting complicated bits of magic is. I like the practical part of the R and D. If anything, it’s very stress relieving when I get to hurl spells at one of those arithmancy nets they’ve come up with to catch and hold them.” He grinned with childish glee.

Draco chuckled. “There’s a room in my home I often used for such things before I became involved with the council. The explosions I caused make me grateful for those spell nets now,” he added humorously, making Potter laugh. “The room still smells like lilac too; _still_ haven’t figured that one out.”

Potter looked shocked, and it was only barely that Draco could tell he was acting. “You? The great and industrious Draco Malfoy? There is something that _you_ can’t figure out?” he said with mock-awe. “Why, I suppose I might have to tell Hermione to call off her attendance to your fanclub,” he said sadly, wickedness glinting in his eyes.

Draco tried to glare – really, he did – but a laugh bubbled up and ruined it. “Singing my praises, is she?” he drawled smugly.

“Only every other sentence. Honestly, Ron might have been worried if you weren’t…um…you,” Potter finished lamely. Draco could see the awkwardness settle over the man, and it took him a moment to piece it together.

“You mean if I wasn’t gay?” he ventured, smirking at the other man’s discomfort. He might be a changed man, but discomfiting Potter seemed to still be in his ‘fun’ category.

“Er, yeah.” Potter reached up to card a hand through his thick hair in embarrassment. Draco was pleased to note that some things didn’t change: the man’s hairstyle was still a wreck. “I wasn’t sure if that was appropriate to joke about. Sorry.”

Draco waved him off. “You’ve _met_ Pansy, correct?” The other man gave him a confused nod. “You are aware she is one of my best friends, yes?” Another nod, even more confused. “What would make you think that I find jokes of that nature at all inappropriate? Well, lighthearted ones, not so much the insinuating type.” He wrinkled his nose, recalling a few of the more appalling statements that had been thrown his way under the guise of comedy.

Potter grinned sheepishly. “Yeah, I guess. I suppose it’s just me who’s a little awkward about things like that,” he said, waving himself off. He sighed, then gave Draco a tired smile.

The statement puzzled Draco. Was Potter not comfortable with gay men? He _had_ made a joke that made it not seem that way, but… Draco was vaguely aware of how the Muggle world reacted to such topics, and it was true that Potter had spent a fair amount of time out there. It took him a moment to remember he was dealing with a Gryffindor, so it was probably okay to just ask. “Does it bother you?”

“Hmm?”

“Me being gay.”

“Oh! Nonono, not at all!” Potter was quick to reassure, flailing arm movements included. His eyes were wide and panicked, obviously thinking he had insulted Draco. “Sorry, pants with words.” He scrunched up his face before peeking back at Draco. “It’s more I’m just, um, not quite used to the…flippancy. My friends make jokes all the time, but it still throws me off a bit, I guess.” His face was gaining a bit of color, which made a slightly sinister part of Draco push on.

“All the time? Come now, Potter, it can’t be that bad,” he purred predatorily. Oh, this was even more fun than baiting Neville, and Pansy wasn’t around every corner to defend Potter to boot.

“I think it’s because I still get so flustered. They think it’s funny. It’s not that I’ve not come to terms with it, just that it’s still a bit awkward to discuss, y’know?” Potter blinked for a moment, then added, “Well, no, I guess you don’t know, but…well.” He took a large gulp of his ale, looking like he just wanted to crawl inside the flagon and hide.

Draco was all set to tease again before something tipped off in his mind. “Come to terms with it?” he prodded.

“Er,” Potter’s face suffused with color, and he suddenly found the corner of a piece of parchment terribly fascinating.

Draco’s eyebrows rose in astonishment. “Are you gay?”

“No, er, not, um…not exactly,” he mumbled.

“Not exactly,” Draco deadpanned, showing just what he thought of the sentence. Then again, he hadn’t heard anything in the explosion of Potter’s divorce about _his_ sexuality playing an issue, and he had more children than Draco did. Perhaps… “Bisexual, then?”

“Er, no. Omni,” the other man mumbled out.

Draco drew his brows together in confusion. “Omni?”

“Um, omnisexual. I, uh, don’t really mind either way,” he said to the table, hastily taking another gulp of his ale.

Draco blinked at him a moment. “I thought that was bisexuality.”

“Well, see, bisexuals like _men_ and _women_. I…um, I like… _people_. I look for the same things, regardless of gender. It…doesn’t really make much of a difference to me,” he mumbled just loud enough for Draco to hear.

“Oh,” was all Draco could respond, processing that for a moment. “I always did think the She-Weasel looked a bit manly,” he quipped, wanting to hit his head against the table as soon as the words escaped. _Well, shit._

Potter barked out a harsh imitation of a laugh. His somewhat adorable embarrassment had quickly morphed into a more sullen attitude. “Perhaps she was. They do try to tell us that men are more promiscuous,” he grumbled, trying to return the joke despite the dip in mood.

“Sorry,” Draco said sincerely. “But as one ex-husband of a cheating ex-wife to another, I would like to put in my two knuts that ‘they’ are full of their own shit,” he said blandly, his look matching his tone.

Potter glanced up at Draco’s face and laughed, long and hard. When the bout finally subsided, he wiped at his eyes and smiled at Draco. “Thanks, I think I really needed that.”

Draco felt his own mouth turn up in an involuntary smile in return. Something shifted in Draco’s mind then, as he took in Potter’s appearance. There were lines around Potter’s eyes that spoke of a tiredness that Draco knew all too well; it weighed on a person to be betrayed like that. That mad, determined spark was still present in those bright green eyes – the one Draco had seen him carry all through his youth, and that had given Draco the knowledge that he could trust and have faith in this man, all those years ago. The flush of embarrassment was still slightly present on Potter’s face, making Draco remember how he’d looked after every Quidditch game, almost seeming to glow with life. The bright smile directed at him was friendly and welcoming, and it triggered something.

It took only a split second. And then Draco felt his own cheeks tinging just slightly as he ducked his head in almost a shy nod. “Don’t worry about it, Potter,” he returned, nudging the other man’s toe in a friendly manner under the table.

Potter shook his head. “Harry.”

“What?”

“Please, call me Harry,” he said.

And so Draco did.

.o0O0o.

When Draco had finally left to attend to his errand that day, he’d offered to possibly assist Harry with his vault-trawling. After all, he could possibly lend the eye of a well-educated pureblood in addition to his magical knowledge. It was likely there were items of historical value even if they weren’t magical, and his mother had made sure he could recognize the signs of many of them when he was younger.

Harry had accepted, and less than a fortnight later they were meeting again, and that time he brought along a stack of pictures in addition to a much more organized pile of lists. They had pored over the details, trying to match artifacts to the names that had been assigned to them. Draco was indeed able to identify a few on sight alone, and the excited smile he received in return was a more than generous payment.

The contents of the vaults intrigued him almost as much as their owner. It wasn’t long before they had separated out the lists of objects and sorted them so that they could deal with one type of thing at a time. Vases, amulets, carvings, art – slowly they picked their way through each piece. A month after their second meeting, Harry had allowed Draco physical access to the vaults, letting him get a much more hands-on study of the objects.

There were a handful of Dark Arts objects – not surprising for any old, pureblooded family – that Harry graciously donated to MAC. Hermione had been called in to help with some of the trickier items, but for the most part Draco and Harry had been having fun picking through the odds and ends of Harry’s family history.

It was late May when Harry decided to forego their usual meetings at various restaurants and pubs to tentatively invite Draco over to The Burrow. “Everyone’s busy and can’t watch the kids,” he’d explained sheepishly. Draco had only asked that he could bring Scorpius along as well then, which Harry had enthusiastically agreed to. Hermione had jokingly threatened that she should shove Rose and Hugo on them for the afternoon as well, but Harry had pleaded that one baby and three toddlers was enough when they were supposed to be working.

Despite that assertion, they did spend a good majority of the afternoon entertaining the kids. Harry had lovingly introduced his children as Trouble the Disorderly, Devious the Crafty, and Enigma the Perplexing – also legally known as James, Al, and Lily. James was just over four and a half, and Draco clearly see a relation to the Weasley twins in the little redhead – that wicked gleam in his eyes said everything even without the nickname. Al was almost three and a half and looked like a pint-sized version of Harry, but there was a slyness to his eyes that made Draco grin. Lily was only seven months old with a mass of bouncy red curls, burbling happily and laughing at everything around her. While Al was the only one who had gotten Harry’s eyes, all three (in Harry’s fond words) had been cursed with his unruly hair.

Scorpius was nearing his third birthday, and Draco happily calculated that he and Al would be in the same year at school, along with Rose. He’d rolled his eyes when the elder boys took to calling the boy ‘Score.’ “They’re as bad as Teddy,” he’d mumbled in mock-irritation. He adored that boy, but there was no doubt in his mind that the multicolored menace was headed straight for Slytherin.

“Hah, Teddy’s probably mentioned him to them, then,” Harry had replied with a shake of his head.

Draco blinked, then recalled that his second cousin _had_ been the child of Remus Lupin, and that Lupin and Harry had reportedly been close. “You know Teddy?”

Harry nodded, chewing part of his lunch and swallowing. “He’s my godson.”

Draco stared for a moment, soaking that in. “The world gets smaller ever day,” he finally murmured, drawing a laugh from his counterpart.

“Indeed it does.” Harry had smiled at him, then bit his lip nervously. “Hey Draco…”

“Yes?” Harry didn’t get awkward around him much anymore, so Draco was curious.

“Well, see…you know my godfather was Sirius Black, yeah?” Draco nodded. “Well, he never had any kids, so when he died…”

It took Draco a moment. “You inherited what was his?” Draco had also inherited his godfather’s effects. He’d salvaged all of the Potions equipment and books and then burned the old, decrepit house down, as Severus’s will had instructed. He’d even gone so far as to salt the land of the tiny property so that no one in their right might would try to rebuild there until long after the stain of Dark Magic had faded.

Harry nodded, peeking up at Draco through his fringe. “Yeah. Um…I haven’t really set foot in his vaults. I did retrieve the flying motorcycle he made certain I knew was for me alone,” he grinned, “but I felt a bit awkward touching anything else.” He paused. “Most of the things in there – as well as the properties – have probably been in your family for ages, so it almost feels wrong of me.”

Draco was torn. A part of him wanted to tell Harry that he was right, and that it should all be returned to the proper owners. He might not keep so much to only the pureblooded circle anymore, but he was still proud and protective of his heritage. He wasn’t certain if he would be able to help Harry pick though _his_ family’s things with the intention of getting rid of them – as he was almost sure the man might ask.

“I was thinking of willing it to Teddy,” he surprised Draco with. “He’s a Black through Andromeda, so I figured it worked. I _had_ at one point pondered trying to get in touch with you or your mum, but never had the nerve before,” he admitted. “But, really, it makes sense. Remus and my father were Sirius’s best friends, and Sirius once told me that Andromeda was his favorite cousin, though he and Tonks became close later on,” he gave as explanation. “Teddy’s a Black by blood, and I honestly think that if he’d been born while Sirius was alive _he_ would have been the one the vaults were willed to. At least mostly.” He bit his lip, toying with the cup of tea on the table so he didn’t have to look at Draco.

Draco thought it over for a moment. It did make a fair deal of sense. It would stay in the proper line – even if the name was different and the child was technically a Half-Blood. And Draco would be honest and say that his mother’s cousin would likely have never cared about sending his inheritance back into the pureblooded line. Having no children himself, the sons of his two best friends were the logical choices. Draco made a decision. “I’d say you should probably keep those things that were personal to Sirius. Willing the rest to Teddy is a good idea, but he’s still very young.”

“Oh, yes, definitely. I would likely do for him what my parents had done for me – it’ll pay for his schooling and necessities, with a small amount of spending money, until he’s at least an adult.” He nodded resolutely. “He’s a bit young to have all that at his fingertips.” Draco nodded reluctantly, shooting a glance at Scorpius. “I was wondering, though…”

Draco raised an eyebrow in query.

“Well, I mean, there were quite a few items in the Potter vaults that would be considered Dark. I’m sure the Black vaults are older and even more vast, so…” he trailed off, waving his hand. “I was wondering if maybe – after we’re done with mine – if you might help me clean it out before it gets handed over. I don’t want Teddy stumbling in there and touching something nasty by accident – you remember what that innocent-looking ring we found in my vaults would have done?” They shared a shudder. “He also deserves to know the background of things…and to not inherit a mess like I did.” Harry shot a scowl at the seemingly never-ending stack of parchment.

Draco nodded his agreement with some hesitation.

Harry stared at him for a moment, chewing his lip. “Maybe… Um, well, perhaps after we clear out the dangerous stuff, your mum and Andi could have a pick through it? I’m sure there’s some stuff from their youth that they’d appreciate a bit more. And they could probably give a bit more backstory on the rest.” He shrugged, picking at the hem of his t-shirt.

Draco smiled. Always trying to be fair, Harry was. “I think they’d like that. They might get to bond over it, even.” Draco knew his mother was always searching for things that she and her still partially-estranged sister could enjoy together. The beaming smile Harry gave him sealed him to the idea, and he smiled back.

A few hours – and several broken up fights over toys and soothed booboos – later, they were still poring over the documents and sorting out what they would tackle the next time they went in the vaults. The Floo roared to life and Ron stepped through, carrying what looked like several boxes of takeout. He blinked at the odd sight of Harry and Draco with their heads together over the table, then sighed gustily. “Oh, not you too!” he exclaimed in good humor.

Harry grinned. “Sorry, mate. Hermione’s already reserved my seat at the fanclub.”

Ron rolled his eyes as Draco laughed. “Speaking of Bookworm the Bothersome,” Ron said, hefting the bags.

Draco chuckled at the nickname given to whom he was certain was Hermione, sending a look at Harry. He muttered back that the kids’ nicknames might possibly have been the result of him, Ron, and a few too many beers.

“She told me to bring you this and make sure you eat. Since you – wait, let me get this right,” he said, holding up a hand. He cleared his throat, doing a frightening approximation of his wife’s tone. “ _If it wasn’t for his children, Harry would forget to eat sometimes._ There, yes, I think that was it.” He grinned impishly, setting the bags down.

Harry glared, then did a guilty check of the time. “Er, oops.” It earned a laugh from Ron. “Thanks, mate,” he said gratefully. “Just, uh, don’t tell Mione she was right?” he asked hopefully.

“Please, like the woman couldn’t read it off of me,” he snorted, then began heading back toward the fireplace. “I’ll catch you later, yeah? She’ll string _me_ up if I’m gone too much longer, leaving her with the little ones by herself.” After a called farewell, he left them alone.

“That was interesting,” Draco remarked in amusement. “You forget to eat?” he teased.

“Oh, hush. I just lose track of time when I get into something. Luckily my eating machines usually remind me before my stomach starts growling,” he said sheepishly, then shot a fond look at the playing children.

Dinner was served up quickly, and Draco was happy to see that the elder two Potter children were well-mannered enough to sit and eat on their own. He had feared he was going to have to un-teach Scorpius a few things, to be honest. Lily ate quickly, giggling as her father made a fool of himself while feeding her. The faces he pulled and sounds he made had Draco snorting his own dinner on occasion. When the kids had finished, they were cleaned up and allowed to return to their playing on the large living room rug. James had opened up a small book, sounding out the simple words as the other three stared at him with rapt attention.

Draco and Harry were still picking at their meals nearby. A glace over at Harry showed him smiling indulgently at the scene the children made. Draco warred with his curiosity a moment, pushing his food around his plate in thought.

“Go on. Out with it,” Harry prodded, giving Draco an amused look.

Draco flushed at being caught out. “I was just wondering how…well, why are you here?” Draco motioned around him to the cozy walls of The Burrow. It was vastly different from the manor, but there was a warmth that soothed him within the space.

Harry’s smile turned rueful. “Well, the Weasleys had always been like family to me, even before Gin and I got together.” He sighed, straightening from his relaxed pose. Draco was sorry to have interrupted it; they hadn’t spoken much about their ex-wives for good reason. “Ron was with me when I…found out.” His eyes darkened and lips thinned, anger just below the surface.

“Ginny and I had started rowing pretty bad while she was pregnant with Lily. I tried to hold back, since I didn’t want to stress her in her state, but sometimes she just…” He gave a small growl. “Things cooled a lot after Lily was born. We pretty much stopped talking for a bit. She made it clear she wanted to return to the Harpies as soon as the Healers gave her the go-ahead. A few months later, Ron and I had been shopping for gifts for Arthur’s upcoming birthday. We finished a bit quicker than anticipated, and nipped back to mine.”

Harry shifted, lowering his voice further just to be sure the nearby children couldn’t hear him. “It was odd to see the house all deserted like that when we got back, but I didn’t think anything of it. I hopped up the stairs and found the doors to the children’s rooms locked. James was quietly playing, Al was napping, and Lily was fussy and awake. Again, not unusual, save for the locked doors, but that really didn’t seem right. I might not have finished the training to be a front-line Auror, but I got the detective certification – I’d planned to do something with it after the kids were a bit older. Ron and I carefully went to check Gin and I’s room.”

His jaw set, and Draco could tell he was grinding his teeth for a moment, trying to keep calm with the little ones nearby. “She was in there, alright. Enjoying herself quite a bit with two of the blokes from her team.” He scowled. “I was stuck in shock; it was Ron who recovered first. I’m not sure he would have reacted the same way if he hadn’t _seen_ it, but he was _furious_ at her. He yelled a bit of pretty nasty invective at her, then grabbed me and dragged me away. He hastily packed up the kids and took me here, explaining to the assembled family what had just happened.

“Ginny tried to blame _me_ for her family’s anger, despite the fact that they told her that _I_ hadn’t said a word. Molly was a godsend at that point. I might not be her child by birth, but that doesn’t matter one whit to that woman. She let me set up here, since I can’t stand going back to the house. She made the excuse that she then got to see her grandchildren _all_ the time.” Harry smiled tightly at that, fondness evident in his voice. “It was one of Ginny’s blokes who leaked it all to the press. I almost felt sorry for my solicitors, having to deal with both the divorce paperwork _and_ the media.” He sighed, rubbing his forehead tiredly.

“Been here since,” Harry concluded, sending a tired smile to Draco.

Draco returned it, reaching over to clap him on the shoulder in comfort. “I can understand that. It was my mother who had Astoria’s private rooms gutted and completely remodeled after I kicked her out. Our shared room, as well. It was a couple of friends who made me reach out in those delicate moments just after I’d walked in on her and broken it off.” The corner of his mouth twitched at the thought of Eshe and Penha. “After that, I think my friends, family, and acquaintances were conspiring behind my back to keep me busy,” he confided with a chuckle, shaking his head.

“Ah, yes. The ever-intrusive collective of people you supposedly like,” Harry joked, earning a chuckle from Draco. “You look back and are thankful, but at the time you have to keep reminding yourself you love them so you won’t hex them.”

Draco murmured in agreement. They sat in silence for a few more moments. It wasn’t actually uncomfortable, but Draco was still lost on what to say. He was saved by Scorpius running over and crawling up on him, waving a very pointy book dangerously close to Draco’s face. “Look, Papa! Jamie said his uncle had one of these! Can I have one too?” he asked excitedly. Harry laughed when he recognized the book.

The next twenty minutes was spent dealing with the circular questioning of small children who didn’t quite understand why dragons were _not_ pets.

.o0O0o.

A week later was Draco’s birthday party. There were a few more additions to his attendees that year as well. Lucius had raised an eyebrow at the growing number of Weasleys in attendance – George and Bill had started to become fond acquaintances – but had remained silent. The zoo-full of children had run amok, probably having even more fun than Draco.

Draco and Harry had been leaning up against one of the fireplaces, chatting amicably. The way Harry lit up as he told an amusing story had Draco smiling. That first day in the Leaky Cauldron had shown Draco that Harry could be attractive, but every day since had brought him closer to admitting that he was _attracted_. In the couple years since his acceptance of his sexuality, he’d glimpsed a few men that had caught his momentary fancy, but none had ever held his attention the way Harry did.

It was amusing, if he thought about it. Harry had always been the one person he couldn’t ignore. He had always known exactly when the other boy had entered a room in their schooldays, and had been unable to leave him be – even if it _was_ to hurl insults. Pansy had once commented sometime in fifth year that he had a Potter obsession. Draco had adamantly rejected the idea, but he was beginning to entertain that it might have been true. He was the boy who had always – without fail – been able to get under Draco’s skin. And now he was the man that always made Draco smile and laugh – involuntarily, at times.

Draco was dragged back as the story ended and Harry swept a contented look out across the room. A moment later he turned back to Draco and gave him a smile that had Draco thankful he was firmly planted against the stones of the hearth, else he might have embarrassed himself. “You know, I only have so many vaults. I keep wondering how I’ll keep you around after we’ve cleared them all out,” he joked, but there was something inscrutable laced in his tone.

“Shower him in chocolate, blood-flavoured lollipops, and unending praise, and he’s yours forever,” Pansy piped in cheerily as she sauntered by. She only grinned when Draco scowled at her, cheeks heating. The woman was a cheeky menace, even at six months pregnant.

“I’ll have to remember that,” Harry shot back with a laugh, dancing eyes on Draco.

Draco couldn’t help but hope that he did.


	23. Pride and Humility

** Part Twenty-Three: **

At twenty-seven, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Pride and Humility.

Draco inhaled happily, the smell of leather and wood bringing back memories. He and Harry had gotten rather tipsy at his party and had somehow been egged into agreeing to a pickup game of Quidditch. There had been a challenging grin sent between them, and that was that.

It had been a couple days since then, and Draco had declared all of his gear severely out of date. None of his old pads fit anymore, which he had blamed on his height and broader shoulders – it most certainly wasn’t any sort of increased girth, of course. His broom had fallen into disrepair while languishing in the shed, and he was a bit wary of flying it _slowly_ – nevermind against Harry.

Thus, he now found himself standing in Quality Quidditch Supplies, peeking here and there at the wares. He had to wonder at the claims of the various newer brooms about being faster and steadier and more responsive than the ones he’d known in his school days. It was difficult to imagine that they’d been improved all that much.

He was examining two sets of torso pads, weighing the pros and cons, when a man approached him. Draco had thought at first that perhaps the man was seeking out the display that he was in front of, so had shuffled to the right a bit, still absorbed in his task. When he felt the man continue to stare, he looked up and raised an eyebrow. “May I help you?”

“You’re Draco Malfoy, aren’t you?” The harsh way the man said his name made Draco want to groan. It had been awhile since he’d been accosted, but apparently not long enough.

“I am he,” Draco replied evenly.

“Out and about, mingling with us _common_ people?” the man sneered. “Though I suppose you can’t think of yourself as better than us _now_ ,” he said smugly. “But to think that you’d think of yourself as good _enough_. Hah!”

Draco counted to five and fought the urge to roll his eyes. He was curious if it was just him or if the taunts people attempted to sling at him really were getting more idiotic every time someone tried. “It’s true that I don’t think myself any better, but nor do I think myself any lesser,” he replied rationally.

“Even after all you did!” the man spat out loudly and accusatorily. A few other patrons had stopped to snoop on the exchange now, and Draco fought a sigh.

_Looks like I’ll have to settle this instead of hoping he’ll go away._ He turned to look the man in the eyes. “After the things I did as a child in a horrible war that was beyond my control, yes. I have repeatedly expressed my regrets for any and all of those crimes, and I have paid my debts. I truly am sorry for my actions as an ignorant – and admittedly rather puerile – child. I’ve done what I can to help society for the better, now, while finding a real place in it,” he stated softly but confidently. It had been loud enough for some of those nearby to hear, and Draco saw them smile or shift away in his peripheral vision, thinking that was that.

The man looked taken aback for a moment. Draco hoped that would be the end of it – sometimes a simple and heartfelt ‘I’m sorry’ had done wonders – but no such luck. “Still got that ‘Malfoy Pride’ you lot used to go on about, I see. Think that a few pretty words will have us all coveting you again like the poor, lost soul you claim?” he jeered nastily.

Draco did sigh this time as he looked at the man – _really_ looked at him. This one wasn’t a member of the vastly uninvolved public who sought to simply wag his finger and look righteous. This was one of those who had taken personal insult from every wrong that had been committed – whether he was involved or not, and whether it had been Draco’s fault or not. He was hoping for a fight. He was trying to egg Draco into striking back, thinking that as soon as he hit a nerve that the arrogant, egotistical, prejudiced pureblood would show his true colors.

Draco thought it might be about time to teach people like him a lesson.

“I do not expect anyone to accept petty words, but I also do not give them. I never asked you to ‘covet’ me, as you phrased it; I honestly couldn’t care less,” he began strongly, staring straight at the man. “Pride can be both wonderful and horrible – and I know the difference now.” His gaze turned hard, but it was fiery instead of cold. “I still have my pride, yes, but it is much different from what you refer to.”

He felt his shoulders pull back as he brought to mind his next words. “I have pride in myself and my family. Pride in my parents, for doing their best by me and loving me as best they knew how, I hold dear. Pride in myself, for finally becoming the man I always truly wanted to be, I cherish. Pride in my son, for all the wonders he has shown me in all of his three short years, I hold sacred.” His voice rang clear and true, warmth suffusing it.

“But the other kind of pride?” Draco added, his pitch lowering. “Pride in spiteful torpor, that has filled our world with prejudice and stagnation, I scorn. Pride in uncaring ambition, that has crushed the needy under the heel of the arrogant, I revile. Pride in willful ignorance, that has caused our whole world so much pain, I seek to destroy.” His voice trembled – not in weakness, but in the strength of the conviction behind the words.

“I have done things worthy of both pride and regret, and I am grateful to have finally ventured onto the path of being the type of man who truly recognizes what deserves either of those titles,” Draco said fervently. He felt calm as he said those words, but there was a part of him that had strengthened to steel as he let them pass his lips. He’d never actually spelled it out for anyone before, and there was a sense of conviction and decisiveness that came with doing so.

The man looked much more unsure of himself now, but his eyes still had that wariness. He might not be trying to egg on a fight anymore, but he didn’t quite want to believe what he’d heard. “You can’t mean all that. I know what you lot are like. You’re a _pureblood_ ,” he challenged weakly.

“I am a man,” Draco returned. “Yes, I am a wizard and a pureblood, and these things have shaped me, but they are not the culmination of who I am. For too long, I let myself be shaped by those labels and took no action to control it. It took me more than twenty years to realize I was at all capable of shaping myself.” He gave a self-deprecating scoff. “I have made my mistakes, many of them rooted in foolish pride, involving both things that were wrong to be proud of and asking for help when I was lost and confused. For each one of them, I am deeply, sincerely sorry,” he said with as much earnestness as he could muster. It was a bit difficult for a former Slytherin, but he liked to believe that he’d welcomed enough Gryffindors into his life for them to have rubbed off a _little_.

“I offer my regrets and apologies for what I myself have done and allowed to happen, and – as a mere man – that is all I can do. I have lain myself at the feet of the wronged, but I never asked for forgiveness. I am the only person that I have the right to _ask_ to forgive me, and I have taken my time to do so. I can still hope to _earn_ the forgiveness of others, as they freely give it.” Draco gave a proud, tired smile, his head held high. “I am flawed and I have my fair share of life’s scars, like all men,” he admitted.

“I am a man, no more and no less. That is all that I am – and that is also _everything_ that I am.” He held the man’s gaze until the other looked away. The instigator gave an awkward grunt of acknowledgment, then quickly slunk away and out of the store.

Draco fought the urge to grin like an idiot or dance like a loon or any other such nonsense. He felt a goodly amount of smugness over having avoided a real confrontation, if he was honest with himself. He was careful not to let it show, fearing that it might negate the tone he had sought to set. He knew some people were still staring at him and whispering, but he did his best to ignore them and go back to his shopping. Let them gossip; maybe it would prevent any more – or at least _many_ more – of these type of accusations.

It was amazing, the feeling that he had right then. While much of the time he had spoken of his pride, it had all been expressed with a healthy dose of humility. There had been a gently prideful conviction in his tone, true, but he had used it while admitting his faults to all and sundry. He had laid bare his regrets about his past shortcomings. He had admitted that he was _still_ flawed, because there was no one in existence who was perfect. As he moved on from chest pads to Quidditch gloves, he let a small smile play over his face.

He hadn’t seen trio of people who had sidled out from behind a tall shelf as he focused on the man. He had completely missed the contemplative smile that Harry had given him, though Hermione and Ron hadn’t. He had saved himself without Harry’s intervention in the slightest – or anyone else’s interference, for that matter. For once he had been uncaring of who was around him, and so he had missed the quiet looks of pride on the faces of his friends. They carefully snuck back behind the shelf for a little while before they came over to greet him, never letting on that they had witnessed it all.


	24. Parenting

** Part Twenty-Four: **

At twenty-seven, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Parenting.

Draco and Scorpius had been enjoying a lovely day in the park. It was late spring and the weather was just starting to hover below the point of being uncomfortably warm. Draco had agreed to get out a bit more after a rather insulting loss in that first pickup game; Harry was definitely still in better shape than Draco’s sedentary lifestyle had left him in. Hermione had introduced them to the park the previous autumn and Scorpius had fallen in love with it. It was a Muggle park, though it was frequented by a fair few wizards as well. Draco had enjoyed a few jogs through it himself, liking the idea that he didn’t have to worry about getting in the papers when he had to stop to huff and wheeze for awhile. He’d vowed he would finally beat Potter as soon as the weather was up for it again, but they thankfully hadn’t had a rematch just yet.

Scorpius was skipping around, alternating between picking at the small flowers that dotted the grass and sitting down to try to draw them. Draco sat on a nearby bench and watched him indulgently, only half paying attention to the book he’d brought with him to read. Other families were set in a similar tableau here and there. A few people were sprawled out on blankets, soaking up the sun. A gaggle of children were laughing nearby, chasing a ball across the field.

One kick sent the odd black and white ball rolling over near Draco and Scorpius. The little boy had gleefully bounced up and gone to kick it back, his leggy form allowing him to shoot it a decent distance. The children cheered and a few yelled thanks, but one little boy ran a little further. He was a couple years older than Scorpius, with a gap-toothed smile and unruly blond curls. “Hey! Nice shot! You wanna play with us? You could be on my team!” he called, grinning happily.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know how to play,” Scorpius said sadly, fidgeting shyly and scuffing the toe of his shoe in the grass.

“I’ll teach you! The others’ll help too,” the exuberant child offered.

Scorpius bit his lip, then turned to Draco. “Papa? May I?” he asked hopefully, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Draco dithered for a moment. He vaguely recalled hearing the sport the children were imitating called ‘football’ when a few of the people from other Houses had played it. It seemed like a fairly crude and violent sport, but Draco would grant that the parts of Quidditch not dealing with Seekers could be labeled as the same. It was also fairly dirty, judging from the grass and dirt stains littering the other children’s clothing. The other kids were also Muggle, and while that wasn’t exactly an issue to Draco anymore, he still worried that Scorpius would mention something about magic around them. Then again, Hermione and Harry had clued him in to the fact that most young Muggle children believed in the idea of magic, so that wasn’t necessarily an issue.

In truth, he was afraid of what would happen. He didn’t want Scorpius to get hurt, and they were punting that ball around pretty hard. He had inherited Draco’s height and thinness, so he did look a bit older, but he still wasn’t quite four just yet. Despite his reservations, he wasn’t certain he could say no to the look in those bright, hopeful grey eyes, so much like his own had been at that age.

“Pleeeeeeeease, mister? We’ll be nice!” the other little boy begged energetically.

Draco shot the boy an amused smile, then switched his gaze back to Scorpius. “Now, how am I going to say no to that?” he drawled. “You may go, but be careful,” he warned.

Scorpius jumped up and whooped – something he’d definitely learned from James’s example. “Thank you, Papa!” he called over his shoulder as he trotted over toward the other boy. They swapped grins when he got closer.

“I’m Jimmy,” Draco heard the boy introduce himself.

“I’m Score,” Scorpius responded, making Draco roll his eyes in exasperation.

A very surreptitious spell gathered up Scorpius’s papers and drawing utensils, and then Draco was making his way behind the boys to where a smattering of adults were watching the children play. He introduced himself politely, saying he hoped it was all right that his son had joined in. They welcomed him with understanding smiles, and a harried-looking woman introduced herself as Jimmy’s mother.

They traded stories and polite small talk as they all watched the kids, but it was quickly getting late. Several of the parents excused themselves, calling their children in from the game to go home. Just as Draco was about to call Scorpius himself, one of the other fathers approached him.

“Your boy’s got quite a set of legs on him,” he complimented, making Draco smirk proudly. “If he’s interested, I coach a local youth league team for kids their age,” he continued, waving at the remaining children. “It’s a little more structured than this, but they’re all about this young. And he’s a fantastic player, from what I’ve seen today.”

Draco considered it for a moment, letting his gaze drift back to where Scorpius was running and laughing with the handful of kids left. He hadn’t seen his son light up like this over many things. He seemed both carefree and determined as he joyously attempted to get the ball and shoot it into the makeshift goal area.

It struck Draco then that Scorpius would probably never play Quidditch. It wasn’t as bad as it had been at first, but his fear of heights had remained. He had been completely petrified of Draco’s broom, and had nearly cried when Draco had done a few laps in demonstration. Scorpius would never have the camaraderie that would come from being on his House’s team. He would never get that exultant rush that Draco had felt whenever he had brought the Slytherin team to victory – which had been in every game except those he’d played against Potter.

But this could be close, if he let it be. With football, he never had to leave the ground. His long legs – that would only get longer with age – would carry him swiftly across the field. If he had also inherited Draco’s agility, he would be able to shift himself and the ball around the other players as easily as Draco had avoided people on a broom. He could have that feeling of accomplishment, at least until he had to go off to Hogwarts – and maybe he’d find a way there, as well.

Draco grinned, and almost said yes, but then he paused. In the end, it wasn’t his decision, really. He’d recently begun trying to teach Scorpius that he could shape his own life, make his own choices. Draco would guide him as much as he could, but he wouldn’t ever set a rigid structure for the boy to live by like he’d lived with. If he was going to succeed as a parent, he would need to let go of some of his control in situations, letting Scorpius make the decisions.

“Just a moment,” he told the coach, then called Scorpius over. He smiled as his son bounded over to him, nearly bowling him over with the force of his hug. “Did you have fun?” he asked. Scorpius nodded so hard Draco feared for his neck. “How would you like to play more often, like on a team?” he asked quietly.

Scorpius’s eyes went wide, and then a grin split his face. “Really?!” he exclaimed.

“Really,” Draco confirmed. He was almost knocked over a second time as he found his arms full of happy, squirming child.

Draco looked up at the coach and gave him a wry grin. “I suppose that’s your answer,” he drawled. The man said that he would bring the necessary paperwork with him the next time he and his two little girls came to the park, likely the following weekend. The season wouldn’t restart until late summer, but the kids and parents would often meet up to play around during the interval. Draco was glad for it, since Scorpius would be just about four then.

They agreed to meet then and shook on it, then Draco and Scorpius bid farewell to their respective new acquaintances. As they walked back to the Apparition point hand and hand, Draco couldn’t help but laugh as his son practically skipped in glee. _Yes_ , he thought, _that was the right decision._


	25. Family and Want

** Part Twenty-Five: **

At twenty-eight, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Family and Want.

Draco looked himself over in the mirror again, then reached down to smooth his casual robes for the millionth time. When he looked up again, he saw his mother leaning against the doorway with an amused grin on her face. She looked lovely as she gracefully crossed over to him, somehow straightening his lapels to finally look right. They made their way downstairs to where his father waited patiently with Scorpius, then Apparated over to the venue.

It was Harry’s twenty-eighth birthday, and there was a huge to-do about it. Draco had been surprised the year before when he’d attended, knowing that Harry generally hated the spotlight. This year he had felt comfortable enough to ask, and he’d received a sheepish, sad smile in response.

Harry had then explained about his relatives and how they had treated him. They’d never done anything for his birthday – not even a simple card. Hagrid had been the one to give him is first birthday cake, as well as his first birthday present – that he was old enough to remember, at least. His birthday had been during the summer, so even though he would receive a few small gifts from his friends by owl, he had still been resigned to his own private little celebration when he would stay up until midnight to wish himself a happy birthday.

After school had ended, he had been free. He decided that it was okay to be celebrated that one day out of the year, because it was _his_ special day. Every year since, he had gathered as many of his friends as could make it to a private party. Everyone there was an actual friend of his – as well as their families – and the Aurors in the group would help him set spells to keep the press out. He could relax and enjoy himself, sharing his joy at surviving another year with those he cared about.

He had shyly invited Draco’s parents along this year as well. When he and Draco had gotten to a midpoint in the Potter vaults, Harry had sought out Narcissa to personally extend his offer for her and Andromeda to have a go at the Black vaults – once he and Draco had deemed them safe, of course. Narcissa had taken to him after that, welcoming him and his children over for tea even when Draco wasn’t around. Lucius had come around eventually – likely at his wife’s prodding – and he and Harry had seemed to have called a tentative truce.

Draco walked into the large ballroom and grinned at the decorations. Most of the balloons were in darker colors with the occasional white one scattered in; matching streamers hung tastefully from the ceiling and between each pillar. Bright silver and gold garlands lightened the place up a bit, curled around various columns and tables. Food was everywhere, scattered across the myriad tables lining the walls. An enormous cake filled a sturdy table at the back – a pride-worthy concoction of one Molly Weasley – and there were several stacks of presents surrounding it. There were tables to eat at and a dance floor for the brave (or the drunk). Draco spied a few bright, sparkly pink and purple balloons, likely courtesy of George, and laughed. Harry would probably pop them posthaste as soon as he noticed them, but Draco had a feeling they would persist for the duration of the evening.

Harry quickly spotted the newest arrivals, his face splitting into a large grin. He came over and clapped Draco on the shoulder, then turned to kiss Narcissa’s cheek and nod to Lucius. He leaned down to pick Scorpius up, sharing a squashing hug with him. “Welcome! Please, enjoy yourselves. My hellions and the other children are over there,” he said to Scorpius, laughing as the boy squirmed to get down and started to run off.

“Scorpiuuusss,” Draco drawled in a humorously chastising tone, his eyebrows raising in amusement.

The little boy stopped and blushed, the came back. Waving Harry down, he planted a kiss on his cheek. “Happy Birthday, Harry!” he yelled, then took off full tilt to where the other kids were visible. He had become much faster since he started competing with the other children he played football with, and he ducked and swerved around the various adults in the way with much increased agility.

Draco sighed exaggeratedly and Harry laughed. Draco’s parents then excused themselves to go greet Andromeda and Teddy, so the two men headed over to the small group of their mutual friends.

The night progressed wonderfully from there. Harry had been greeted with various hugs, kisses, punches, and one exuberant tackle, lighting up with every face he saw. Lee Jordan and George had come forward to provide hilarious – if borderline racy – commentary when Harry finally opened his gifts. Or, rather, Harry’s children took turns tearing into most of them, leaving an amused Harry to the ones in much more boring bags. The kids had garnered a few laughs and ‘aww’s when they waved Teddy and Scorpius over to help them, sticking bows on each other and gleefully sending brightly colored paper flying in every direction. The gargantuan cake had been served up, along with several toasts to the birthday boy.

Harry’s color was high, and he was practically glowing. Draco cast a surreptitious glance over at the man when he’d finally gotten a moment alone, smiling as he surveyed those gathered. Something clicked in Draco then, and he finally realized what Harry saw when he looked out over these people.

This was his family.

Not a single person in the room shared a drop of blood with him save for his children – unless you were to go back quite a few generations on his pureblooded father’s side. He wasn’t _technically_ tied to the Weasley clan anymore. Most of these people were simply friends, though the majority of them had stood by him through thick and thin. But none of that mattered.

They were his family in the only way that _really_ mattered: love.

Draco smiled as he came to that realization. He glanced over and saw his parents separated and happily lost in conversation with other guests, and then over to Scorpius who was furtively assisting Al and Teddy in swiping more cake. They had become part of that family, now. The feeling that swelled in his chest at the thought spilled over into a beatific smile. He hid it behind his drink, not wanting anyone to notice him grinning like a loon all by himself. If they did, well, he’d blame it on the ridiculous scene of the three little Slytherins-in-training.

The party began to wind down after a few hours, several people saying their farewells because they had work the next day or they had to put down their children. Draco’s father had taken a drowsing Scorpius from him, his mother kissing him on the cheek and saying they would put the boy to bed so that Draco could stay a bit longer. Draco witnessed Molly and Arthur giving their own children a similar treatment, Harry included.

George leaned over to say something to Harry making him groan and laugh. Catching everyone’s attention, he announced, “I’ve been informed that as soon as the kids have all left, my darling friends are going to try to get me indecently drunk.”

“Hell yes, we are!” Finnigan cried out from across the room, causing a wave of laughter.

“Oh Merlin,” Harry said in a laughing, worried tone. “I sincerely apologize in advance for my behaviour,” he called out, accepting the first of many odd concoctions from the remaining Weasley twin with a look of trepidation. Draco quickly deemed Harry braver than himself – he would never have accepted food or beverage from the joke shop owner.

The revelry had kicked up a notch after that. Many of the guests were sprawled in chairs around the tables, playing drinking games. The music had been turned up, and quite a few had tossed their inhibitions aside and gone to dance. Or rather to attempt it.

Draco refused to participate in the idiocy taking place on the dancefloor. Instead, he had seated himself on a bench nearby, sipping a drink and watching on as if it were a comedy show. Suddenly, there was a Weasley on either side of him. Draco warily looked at Ron to his right and then George to his left. They looked relaxed and uncaring, but Draco didn’t trust it for a minute.

“Having fun?” George asked.

“Yes, quite,” Draco replied, now on super high alert. George’s definition of ‘fun’ was petrifying.

“Harry’s been real happy to have you here,” Ron added with practiced nonchalance.

“I hope he continues to be happy,” George chimed in. It was a simple statement, but Draco thought he might understand the hint of a threat hidden under it.

There was a long silence, and Draco grew more and more worried as it stretched, as he knew the other two were intending. Eventually, Ron hunched a little closer.

“If you hurt him, I will kill you,” he said blithely, but the threat was real.

“Don’t worry, mate,” George said to Draco, wrapping a friendly arm around his shoulders. “I won’t let him kill you.” There was a pause, and Draco waited for the other half of the statement. “I’ll just make you wish I’d let him.” He gave Draco’s shoulders a squeeze, a disarming smile stretched across his face.

“I…won’t,” Draco replied in confusion, eying the two brothers back and forth.

“Right then! Shall we go find our wives and take a spin?” Ron asked his brother.

“Splendid idea, Ronnikins! Lead the way!” And with that, they were up and gone again, leaving a rather bewildered Draco behind.

_That was an interesting experience_ , Draco thought for a moment. He was taking a sip of his drink when it sunk in. He coughed and spluttered, pounding on his chest to try to help.

The Weasley brothers had pretty much just given him permission to pursue Harry.

He boggled over that for a moment, eyes drifting to the two men actively embarrassing their wives on the dance floor. They had noticed? Who all had noticed? Was it a real possibility? Had maybe Harry…?

Draco’s eyes snapped across the room, locating the man he’d been attracted to for more than a year. He was sprawled in a chair, grinning stupidly and locked in discussion with Luna Lovegood. Draco was entirely certain the man was drunk. When Harry noticed him staring, he looked over and shot Draco a smile. Luna excused herself with an unnoticed kiss to Harry’s cheek as he heaved himself up to come over to where Draco sat.

“Hey!” the other man greeted cheerily. Draco smiled shyly in response, his newfound knowledge still floating at the fore of his mind. Harry leaned over conspiratorially. “Don’t tell anyone, but I think I’m drunk,” he shared in a stage whisper, then broke down into giggles over his own joke.

“Perhaps you should sit down before you fall over and someone figures it out,” Draco returned. Harry quickly plopped down next to him, taking a moment to attempt readjusting himself before giving up and slumping against Draco’s side, making Draco snort a laugh.

Harry looked up at him and smiled. “Hi,” he stated simply, looking up at Draco with wide, childlike eyes.

“Hi yourself,” Draco returned quietly. “Enjoying your party, then?”

“Yup,” he said happily. “I hope I remember this bit tomorrow. I probably shouldn’t have accepted drinks from George and Seamus, though. Oops.”

Draco laughed. “Probably not.”

They sat there in comfortable silence for a few moments, watching the scene before them. Draco could feel his face heating with every second that passed. Suddenly, Harry looked up at him and grinned impishly. “Dance with me?”

Draco gave a pained look to the dancefloor and then to the man happily leaning against his side. Damn but he wasn’t going to be able to say no. When had he become such a pushover? “Only if you promise your skills have improved since fourth year,” he quipped.

Harry laughed, then scrabbled up to a standing position, pulling at Draco’s arm. “I have, I promise. Lots better,” he babbled.

Draco gave a resigned sigh, downing his drink before allowing himself to be dragged into the fray.

They edged in among the other oblivious dancers, and Harry half-fell against him as he wrapped his arms around Draco. They found a rhythm of their own, paying as little attention to the dancers around them as they had received. They swayed back and forth, spinning away and slipping back into each other’s arms. Both of them had stumbled more than a few times, giggling and making fun of each other each time. At one point, Draco laughed so hard that he had to put his head on Harry’s shoulder to keep the room from spinning. His fingers had crept to the back of Harry’s neck in the guise of support, sliding up into the soft riot of curls. Draco purred, thankfully quietly enough to be obscured by the music.

Draco knew then the exact face that would be haunting his dreams from then on – that was so similar to even his earliest fantasies. Eyes that were neither light nor dark, dancing that boundary between. He had a strong jaw, but the angles suited him. Soft hair, several inches long, twined around Draco’s fingers. His body was fit and lean, and had a tan that sometimes made Draco jealous. Draco gripped the hair in his hand firmly and tentatively rubbed his cheek against Harry’s – feeling the five o’clock shadow that had already begun to appear – and shivered hard.

Heat filled him, and he knew that it had little to do with the drinks he’d imbibed. Harry had one hand on his lower back and one pressed between his shoulder blades, and Draco allowed them to draw him closer. One slight turn of their heads, and their lips would be able to touch.

A shrill noise nearly startled Draco out of his skin; a sentiment shared by much of the crowd if their shrieks and pale faces were anything to go by. A quick look around showed an evilly grinning George Weasley standing atop one of the tables, wand aloft.

“Sorry to break up the fun, but the sun is rising and we’ll be getting kicked out of here in a minute,” he announced with a laugh. He jumped down far too sure-footedly for someone who had been acting as inebriated as he had been, and Draco glared.

Draco cast a quick _Tempus_ and unfortunately found the prankster to be correct. Had it really been that long? He looked back at Harry, who was blushing and scratching his head sheepishly.

“Er, I guess we should, um, be heading home, then,” he said awkwardly. There was a smile on his face that he was failing at fighting, and it eased Draco’s worry a bit.

“Ah, yes, likely so.” He groaned when a thought hit him. “Scorpius will be bounding in to wake me up very soon,” he whined, tipsy enough not to care how he sounded.

Harry laughed. “Yeah, um, Enigma will probably be up soon too. Trouble and Devious would sleep in as long as I’d let them every morning except Christmas,” he babbled. There was a short silence as they both found a very interesting bit of décor to examine.

“So…I, uh, guess this is goodnight, then. Or morning, rather,” Draco offered.

“Yeah. Right. I’ll…see you later, yeah?” Harry asked. Draco nodded the affirmative. “Well, bye then.” He clumsily sauntered backward, giving a shy smile and a little wave before tucking his hands in his pockets. The grin George shot Draco over Harry’s head when he threw an arm around his pseudo-brother was pure evil.

Two things were on Draco’s mind as he Apparated back to Malfoy Manor. First, he needed to plan revenge on one George Weasley. Second, he was going to excuse himself as quickly as possible after Scorpius dragged him to breakfast so that he could relieve the problem that had made walking off the dancefloor even more difficult than his inebriation had.


	26. Joy

** Part Twenty-Six: **

At twenty-eight, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Joy.

The last seven and a half months had been an intricate dance. Neither Draco nor Harry had mentioned that moment they’d shared on the dancefloor, but it was crystal clear that they both remembered it. A teasing look here, a fleeting touch there. They’d stand a bit too closely, or maybe a friendly tap on the shoulder would end with fingers sliding down an arm. Draco had whined to Penha, not caring when the book had called him out on it – even going so far as to bring back words from eighth year when Draco had adamantly asserted that he did not whine, and especially not about Potter.

It was slow torture. Neither of them was ready to cross that boundary, but they had been dancing along it oh-so-closely, toeing the line with every other step. Draco had slowly lost a bit of his self-consciousness as their efforts made certain that he was getting much more acquainted with his hand than he had ever been before. It was exhilarating and frustrating and Draco wanted more even as he shied away from claiming it.

And now it was Valentine’s Day.

Draco had always disliked the holiday in previous years – too much pink and the expectation that you had to show off your current beau and rub your happiness in the face of those who didn’t have anyone to share the ‘holiday’ with. This year, it had filled him with a sense of trepidation.

For one thing, he hadn’t been sure if he should have gotten anything for Harry. They weren’t really _together_ , but Draco didn’t want him to think that Draco didn’t _want_ to be. He wanted it – very, very much so. In the end, he had furtively bought a large box of the other man’s favorite chocolates; he’d figure out whether he’d actually give them to Harry on that day when it came time.

And then Aunt Andromeda had poked her head in that morning, telling them that she would be around to collect all the children on Valentine’s Day evening for a sleepover. She’d claimed she wanted to give all the couples a special night to spend together, but Draco somewhat suspected that she might also not want to be alone herself. Draco and Harry had both become a bit flustered, saying that she really didn’t have to take either of theirs because they weren’t actually involved with anyone.

“Nonsense. They wouldn’t want to miss out, and I’m sure their cousins would all miss them terribly,” she argued. She had taken to referring to all of the children belonging to their group of friends as ‘cousins,’ seeing how close they all were. “Plus, I’m sure you two will find something to do,” she added, smiling blandly before slipping out.

Damn Slytherin aunts and their meddlesome babysitting.

Draco and Harry had stared at each other warily for a moment. Harry was the one to break the silence. “Since our friends will all be occupied and neither of us have dates, I suppose we could suffer each other’s company for awhile. Unless you have plans?” he queried, his tone light but his eyes intense as he focused on Draco.

“None, as of yet,” Draco managed to get out with some modicum of nonchalance. He hoped Harry hadn’t realized how hard he’d gulped after that, but knowing his luck there was a good chance the man had.

“We probably won’t want to stay at the manor. Your parents might enjoy the night alone, and I’m certain that neither of us would want to accidentally… _interrupt_ them,” Harry added with a laugh.

Draco pulled a face at that. “I _really_ don’t want to imagine what my parents might get up to in an empty house, Potter,” he’d said with a note of revulsion.

Harry laughed. “Well, without the kids, my flat will be free,” he offered with a slight waver in his voice. He was fidgeting and nervously peeking up at Draco through his fringe.

“Then I suppose that is likely the best place to go,” Draco had agreed, his heart hammering.

.o0O0o.

It had been a rather tense several hours before Andromeda had made her rounds. After she had picked up Scorpius, Draco bid his parents goodbye and asked only that they didn’t knock down any walls or enter his rooms. His mother had acted scandalized, shooting a hex after him as he’d run from the room laughing loudly.

He’d brought along the large box of chocolates after all, reasoning that it might be a good distraction for awhile. He Apparated to the special room reserved for such, then walked through a set of doors to the lobby. The lift ride up seemed to take so much longer than usual, and then he made his way to Harry’s door.

A few of the more progressive wizards had recently ventured to construct a modern-esque high-rise building in the city. It was a completely Wizarding building from top to bottom, and the various wards were set into the very mortar. The lower floors had smaller flats with fewer rooms, but the further up one got the larger they became. With three children, Harry had needed a bit of space, and he certainly had the money. He only shared his floor with one other apartment, located on opposite sides of a long hallway. He’d finally moved in just after the New Year, having felt it was long past due that he ‘left the nest,’ so to speak.

Harry answered his knock quickly, and Draco smirked at the knowledge that the other man had been waiting. Harry blushed at being caught out and waved him in, taking his coat and hanging it. “What did you bring that for?” Harry asked in confusion.

“I…wasn’t certain if we might go out at some point or not. It’s freezing out there, and I rather enjoy my lack of frostbite,” he drawled, trying to cover his nerves with a joke.

Harry chuckled. “I see. Well, if we, uh, get bored or something then maybe. Someplace without hearts pasted up everywhere, if possible,” he suggested, wrinkling his nose.

“And here I was hoping you’d take me to Madam Puddifoot’s,” Draco pouted, heaving an exaggerated sigh and looking comically put out.

Harry snorted, shaking his head in amusement. “Arse,” he muttered. “What’s that you’ve got there?” He nodded toward the large yellow box, likely recognizing the crest on the side.

“A…gift,” Draco said, heat crawling up his face. He turned to go place it on the coffee table, unable to look at Harry. He noticed an ice bucket sitting next to the sofa and quirked a brow. “What’s that?”

“A…gift?” Harry repeated sheepishly, smiling that innocent smile of his as he reached up to torture his hair.

Draco peered at the bottle, lifting it enough to see the label. A goofy smile spread across his face for a moment before he could contain it. His favorite, and a good year too. “I’ll assume you have glasses somewhere then, right?”

“Er. Yes. Of course,” Harry said in a fluster, hightailing it to the kitchen. Draco laughed after him. He _would_ remember the wine only to forget about the glasses.

Harry returned with two long-stemmed flutes, letting Draco pour the wine into each of them. They’d relaxed back on one of the sofas, picking and prodding and bantering back and forth as they drank. They were sitting closer than necessary on the spacious furnishing, half-turned toward each other. Draco’s knee felt like it was burning from where it had pressed against Harry’s thigh.

Once they’d been settled, Harry had greedily dragged over his chocolates, popping open the box between them to share. The little sounds of bliss the other man made when biting into each one had Draco on edge, and he fervently hoped Harry couldn’t feel the tremors running through him. And then Harry had held one chocolate a bit too long, causing it to leave a melted remnant on his thumb and forefinger. He’d obliviously sucked each finger into his mouth to clean them; Draco had seen him do it a million times before, not wanting to waste his precious chocolate. But at that moment, it had taken all of Draco’s willpower to refrain from shattering the fragile glass in his hand or gulping his wine.

“Harry,” he husked out, his breathing finally betraying the shudders that raced through him. His eyes were transfixed on the other man’s mouth as it slipped from around his finger.

Harry’s eyes shot to Draco’s face, taking in the sight of his glazed eyes and softly panting mouth. His green eyes darkened in response, and he slowly reached out to take Draco’s glass from him. He set it on the table, then sat back to lock eyes with the other man once again. “Draco…” he whispered, just above a breath, slowly leaning forward.

When their lips met, it was like a shock. There was a spark of magic there, warmth spreading out from the point of contact, like when Harry had returned Draco’s wand just over a decade before. One of them whimpered, the other moaned, and then they both leapt into action. The chocolates were swept aside to spill onto the floor. Hands reached out to tangle in clothes and hair, dragging each other closer. The initial gentleness was gone, replaced by a needy mashing of lips and teeth.

After a desperate moment, they found a better angle, their lips sliding against each other’s. Draco boldly traced his tongue along Harry’s teeth, then slid it slowly inside, gripping the front of Harry’s shirt to drag him forward harder. The taste of good chocolate and better wine permeated his senses – and then Harry returned the favor. Draco moaned, pushing forward even as Harry pulled him closer. He was draped over Harry’s lap at an odd angle, and without thinking slid one knee over to straddle him to relieve the discomfort.

They licked and bit at each other’s lips, an odd mixture of affection and violence. Draco’s long fingers tangled in Harry’s thick hair and pulled, granting him a wanton whimper from the other man. Harry retaliated by angling his head to place biting kisses along Draco’s jaw, gaining back an ecstatic cry. Draco moaned and tightened his fingers in Harry’s hair, tilting his head to give the man better access as he continued on down Draco’s throat, taking time to suck on the sensitive flesh and mark it.

Harry growled, and Draco let out a loud whimper when his brain finally caught up to processing the sensations from below. He was painfully aroused, straddling an equally aroused Harry’s lap. Their hips had begun to grind together unconsciously, creating a delicious friction that had Draco panting faster. Tearing Harry’s mouth away from where it had begun trying to burrow beneath his collar to his shoulder, Draco kissed him hard, growling back into his mouth. Harry responded by sliding his hands down to grip Draco’s backside, pulling them even more tightly together.

Draco broke away with a gasp, throwing his head back. Harry groaned loudly, his hips pushing up as much as they could in that position. It all felt so, _so_ good – but Draco wanted more than this. They had teased too long, and this wouldn’t satisfy him now that they’d abandoned the line and leapt clear over it.

“Potter…I… _bed_ ,” he commanded breathlessly, hoping Harry understood.

“ _Yesssss_. Soon. I want,” he panted helplessly, trying to shove aside Draco’s overrobes to pull away the shirt that was in his way.

“ _Now_ ,” Draco growled. He did his best to push away Harry’s questing hands, tugging the last button free himself.

Harry snarled, shoving up and unbalancing Draco. He caught the other man, bracing him long enough for him to find his footing, then began to walk Draco backwards as quickly as possible. Curses fell half-muffled from their lips as they tripped over carpets and bumped into furniture, spinning back and forth – Draco pushing Harry, Harry pushing Draco – making their way to Harry’s bedroom doors. Draco managed to strip his overrobes down his shoulders, Harry helping him to practically tear the garment the rest of the way off his arms. They’d kicked it aside as they tripped their way over where it had pooled on the floor.

Draco cried out sharply when he made contact with the hard surface of the door. He’d clutched at Harry’s shoulders as the other man pressed against him tightly, his hands scrabbling for the handle. Harry’s lips descended onto Draco’s, kissing him thoroughly – pulling back and pressing in again – until he finally managed to find the lever.

Draco almost fell backwards as the door swung out from behind him. Shoes were kicked off and belts were fumbled open and whipped away as they backed their way to the bed. Draco cupped Harry’s face in his hands, kissing him needfully as Harry guided him back onto the soft mattress. “Harry…please…” he begged, not even certain what he was begging for. Anything, everything.

Harry let out a whine, wrapping a firm arm around Draco’s waist to forcefully drag him up the bed. Sliding one insistent leg between Draco’s, he ground down, his hands going back to the task of ridding himself of the obstacle of Draco’s shirt. Draco arched up at the contact, angling up the leg left between’s Harry’s to return the sensation. He let out a rumble of pleasure when his thigh came into contact with the hardness there.

Harry bit at Draco’s throat and lips, as if in punishment for wearing a shirt with so many little buttons. He’d pushed it up for the moment, slipping his hands under the garment to slide over Draco’s chest. He pressed hard on Draco’s ribcage, working the muscles there under his strong fingers. Blunt nails scraped across the expanse of skin, making them both moan in appreciation.

Draco retaliated, tugging up Harry’s t-shirt and splaying his hands over the other man’s back. He dragged his own short nails down the plane of flesh, drawing a hiss from the man above him. Harry snarled wordlessly, ripping free the remaining buttons, startling a yelp from Draco. “Damnit, Potter!” he rumbled through clenched teeth.

“Shut. Up,” Harry grunted, moaning as his mouth was finally granted further access to Draco’s pale skin. The slick sounds of Harry sucking and biting at the flesh at random were matched with a loud cry from Draco every time. He made a path down one side of Draco’s torso, then licked his way back up, tracing the light definition of muscle there. As he began a similar path down the other side, Draco latched onto his shoulders, squirming underneath him. Harry enveloped the small nipple there, quickly sucking it into his mouth and biting down. Draco’s eyes flew open, a shout falling from his lips as his back arched up off the bed. He reached down over Harry’s shoulders, dragging the t-shirt up and yanking insistently until Harry relented and moved back to allow the cloth to be dragged over his head, taking his glasses with it.

Harry quickly returned to his task, switching to the other nipple and affording it the same treatment. One of his hands slowly slid up Draco’s thigh, finally coming to cup the straining bulge in his trousers. Draco let out a sound halfway between a whine and a scream, tangling his fingers into Harry’s hair painfully. Harry groaned, beginning his trek across Draco’s torso anew, stroking and squeezing the length clearly defined against the fabric in his hand. Draco writhed, caught up in the dual sensations of Harry nipping across his stomach and pressing against his cock. Harry did his best to brace himself on his knees, bringing his other hand over to work at the fastenings of Draco’s trousers. One by one, the buttons popped free, allowing Harry better access through Draco’s much thinner pants.

As Harry reached the bottom of Draco’s stomach, Draco was torn between dragging that sinful mouth lower and pulling Harry back up. Harry took the initiative, nuzzling down the damp fabric and mouthing gently at Draco’s cloth-covered erection. Draco cried out, his fingers tightening enough to make Harry pull back and shout in pain. An apology fell from Draco’s lips, and then he was surging up, pressing Harry back to a kneeling position and kissing him desperately. Harry reached out to cup his jaw, tilting his had this way and that as he snogged him deeply. Draco’s hands slid down the other man’s chest, kneading the toned musculature reverently, nails dragging across pecs and sides and abs, coming to rest on the hem of Harry’s trousers, fumbling quickly at the single button and the unfamiliar zip. When the fabric parted, twin gasps sounded when Draco’s hands met bare flesh. Draco’s eyes flicked down to see that Harry was indeed sans pants. “Presumptuous,” he growled against the other man’s mouth, appreciation evident.

“Sure thing,” Harry shot back, grinning as he prevented any further comebacks by sealing his mouth over Draco’s. The tentative hand on his cock gave an experimental squeeze, then began to slowly stroke the sensitive flesh. Harry gave a strangled cry, burying his face against the side of Draco’s neck.

“Har _ryyy_. I want. I want,” Draco whined against Harry’s ear, pulling his hand slowly up and down. He felt Harry nod rapidly, carefully prying himself away and reaching back to push down his trousers. He kicked them off, along with his socks, while Draco watched him hungrily. Draco reached for him again, but Harry knocked his hands to the side as he grabbed at the sides of Draco’s bottoms, tugging at them hard.

Draco shuddered and leaned back cooperatively, helping to shift the material off his hips and letting Harry drag it all off his legs. Before Harry could even toss it away, Draco was leaning forward, circling his hand around Harry’s erection and breathing wetly against the tip. He was scared to go further before they were settled and risk injuring his lover. A forceful shudder wracked Harry’s frame as he hunched forward. Pulling himself to the side, Harry laid himself sideways, trailing a hand up Draco’s thigh to pet at the velvety flesh finally revealed to him. Draco shuddered, adjusting himself to match Harry’s pose, then leaned forward to give his first tentative lick.

A moan and a whimper mingled as they fought their way out of his throat. He’d experimented with tasting himself before, and while the physical taste was similar and not overly appealing, it was the mental difference that was significant, and it made his mouth water. He quickly leaned in and licked a stripe along the length, enjoying the cry Harry gave in return. Having wet the shaft with a series of exuberant licks, he tentatively slipped his lips over the head and as far down as he could manage. His hand twisted along the base of the shaft where he couldn’t yet reach, then followed his lips back as he slowly pulled off. Harry choked out a sob against his thigh, urging him on to continue his slow ministrations. His motions sped as he became used to the soft glide of the flesh in his mouth, and he moaned at the feel of the heavy heat on his tongue.

Harry had not remained idle. As Draco explored him with gentle licks, he had nuzzled and bit softly at the other man’s inner thighs. His hand had begun to pump the shaft in front of him, twisting and pulling and squeezing, reveling in the small shudders of Draco’s hips as he experimented. He had sobbed against Draco’s thigh when he felt the wet heat of the man’s mouth close around him, and then he began his own tentative tasting of his lover’s hard flesh. He took his time swirling his long tongue around the shaft, circling the tip, and dancing around the rim of the receding foreskin. Draco whimpered appreciatively around him as Harry pressed his tongue against the slit in the head. Harry’s grin was pure wickedness as he left sloppy kisses down and back up the turgid length. When he reached the tip again, he carefully folded his lips over his teeth and slid down, and down, and down.

Harry had previously discovered his lack of a gag reflex by sheer accident, and was aware when Draco stopped moving on his own length, his mouth as full as it could get. He swallowed then, exulting in the shudder that worked its way up Draco’s spine and escaped as a long, low moan around Harry’s flesh. He had to pull back, then, and a bit quicker than he’d have liked. True, he wouldn’t gag, but he couldn’t breathe, either. He let his own sounds of pleasure echo around Draco’s shaft as he set into a rhythm he could handle; Draco’s muffled cries and groans spurred him on.

Draco was in heaven. Complete heaven. He’d dreamed of this many times over, but even his most lascivious dreams could not compare to what he was feeling right then. Harry’s hand had moved to knead at his bottom, squeezing and pulling and massaging at the upper cheek in time with his mouth’s downstrokes. Draco felt a difference when the fingers began to softly caress along the edge, but was too lost in sensation to care. When one finally slid down his parted cleft to rub bluntly at his entrance, his head shot back. He released Harry as quickly as he could, crying out and clenching his teeth as soon as his mouth was free.

Harry continued to gently prod at his entrance, massaging the fingertip around in a circular motion in sync with every time he took Draco into his throat. Draco used his hand to keep stroking Harry, pressing wet kisses along his length as shivers wrecked his concentration. “H-Harry,” he whimpered out, torn between snapping his hips forward and pressing them back. “I…please…ah!” he cried.

There was the odd sound of something flying through the air and smacking into Harry’s palm, his magic and his will strong enough to wordlessly Summon the lubricant from the nearby nightstand even without his wand. Harry’s fingers were removed, making Draco give a low whine, but then they were quickly replaced – now coated in a slippery substance. Draco felt them circle his entrance, relaxing it and massaging the substance in. He keened, wanting to feel more but unsure if he wanted to push back against them in this position.

Harry swallowed again, giving one last hard suck as he pulled completely off of Draco’s cock. “Dra–” he choked out, having to clear his agitated throat before trying again. “Draco. Want to see you,” he rumbled out, gently pressing his fingers inward, but not yet sliding them in.

Draco nodded quickly in agreement against Harry’s thigh, pushing away and using shaky arms to maneuver himself to a sitting position again. Harry left off his attentions, helping as much as he could. He was also a bit shaky, so it took a few moments of repositioning before Draco was stretched out below him again, legs slightly propped open, eyes wide and nervous. Harry leaned over him, circling his lubed hand around Draco’s shaft to stroke gently and pressing a comforting kiss to the other man’s lips. “You’ve never…?” he asked quietly, biting his lip.

Draco shook his head minutely. “I…I’ve, um…done things…myself…but not…” he swallowed hard, a more forceful shudder arcing amongst the smaller shivers that wracked him.

Harry smiled shyly, rubbing their noses together gently. “I…neither have I. I’ll…be careful,” he admitted and assured. Slowly he urged Draco’s legs further apart, pouring out a bit more lube before reaching under Draco again. He bit his lip as the first finger slowly slid in, making Draco wince slightly. “Hurt?”

Draco shook his head. “Odd. Just keep going,” he urged. Harry ignored the shudders of his own body as he moaned at the tight heat enclosed around his finger. He worked it carefully in and out, then slipped in another. Draco hissed, but Harry pressed on, working them in and out of the tight passage, attempting to spread them apart to increase the stretching. A third finger was added, prompting Draco to squeeze his eyes shut and dig his short nails into Harry’s shoulders, but Harry kept going, starting to search for that one area…

“Ah!” Draco cried out, pushing back against the intrusion, making Harry grin. He kissed Draco hard, plundering his mouth and prodding that area a bit harder. A strangled mewl was muffled by his lips, Draco’s nails digging into his shoulders for a completely different reason now. Harry picked up the pace, his body’s impatience coming to the fore.

The pain had faded for the most part now, and while the vague oddness lingered, bloody _hell_ did it feel good. Draco panted in time with the thrusts of Harry’s hand, crying out and writhing every time the other man brushed his prostate. He urged Harry to go harder and faster in a harsh whisper, tilting his head back against the pillow in bliss. Harry leaned down to attack his neck all over again, making Draco cry out louder. Harry’s free hand traveled, massaging and pinching and tweaking and scratching and stroking, reducing Draco to a begging mess of want.

Gradually the fingers slowed and gently pulled away. Draco gave a whine at the loss, but then opened his passion-glazed eyes to focus on Harry. His lover had sat back, locating the bottle of lube and spreading it over himself with a hiss of pleasure. His eyes were dark with want, and Draco shot him a predatory grin.

That seemed to spark something in Harry’s eyes. “Take off your shirt,” he rumbled out lowly, and Draco shivered pleasantly at the danger laced in the words. He propped himself up, sliding the tattered garment the rest of the way off his arms and throwing it aside. Harry ceased stroking himself and loomed up over Draco.

Anyone else, and Draco might have been afraid. But he trusted the man above him – loved him, he was more than certain. Harry held his eyes, then slowly leaned down to lick a careful stripe across Draco’s chest. It didn’t feel quite right, and when Draco figured out why, his eyes widened and breath caught.

The _Sectumsempra_ scars.

Harry went back and licked carefully along the second one, and then the third. Starting at the top, he nibbled and then nipped his way along the length of each one. Draco was almost writhing by the end of it. He had felt much stronger sensations already that night, but there was an intimacy in the gesture that overwhelmed him. Harry’s eyes never left his, save to locate the beginning of the next stripe.

It was an apology. It was a promise.

When he’d finished, he leaned up to brush his lips softly against Draco’s, starting on a path down his neck. Draco tilted his head and enjoyed as the brushes turned to sucks, and then to nips as Harry approached his shoulder. But he didn’t stop there. Draco turned back to find Harry’s eyes locked on his as the nips turned into bites, harder and harder as he made his way down Draco’s arm. Draco swallowed hard when he realized Harry’s destination.

The Mark had faded significantly over the last decade, but the black ink still stained his skin. Harry’s bites got harsher as he neared it, but Draco just shivered and kept himself from wincing, his rapt attention on Harry’s eyes. Harry located the remains of the Mark and bit down hard, making Draco flinch and cry out silently. He sucked at the flesh violently, keeping at it until it had started to turn slightly purple.

It was a punishment. It was a claiming.

“Mine,” he growled when he released the flesh, laving his tongue over the deep marks of his teeth and the now inscrutable dark spot, soothing them.

“Yesssss,” Draco had hissed back at him, grabbing Harry by the hair and yanking him into a hard kiss. “Yours,” he growled back. “Now _prove it_ ,” he challenged with a snarl.

There was a rumble in Harry’s throat as he hitched up Draco’s legs. The tip of his cock pressed in slowly, making Draco bite his lip hard. He paused as the head finally slipped past the tightest ring of muscle, then eased his way in as quickly as Draco could handle it. Their eyes stayed locked for this as well, though they fluttered with the desire to close in pleasure and pain respectively. Harry stilled for a moment once he was fully seated, panting heavily and breaking the eye contact to rest his head against Draco’s shoulder. Draco had never been a patient man, and he squeezed Harry’s shoulders tightly when his impatience quickly overcame his discomfort.

Harry pulled back slowly, groaning at the resistance, then slid home again. As before, he slowly built speed as Draco – and he – could handle it. When Draco began to rock and thrash back against him, he thrust in harder, searching again for the spot he knew would make it even better for his lover.

Draco began a chant – consisting of Harry, Potter, more, faster, harder, and a whole litany of curses – increasing in volume and breathlessness as Harry thrust into him relentlessly. Hands clutched at shoulders and scratched down Harry’s back and chest. They tangled in hair and pulled until Harry leaned down to bite at him in retaliation. Draco did his best to wrap his legs around Harry’s surging form, rising up to meet him on every thrust. He was sure that Harry’s fingers had left bruises on his shoulders, where they clutched and drove Draco down harder onto Harry’s length.

Draco was so lost he screamed when Harry finally located his prostate. He’d both heard and felt the dark chuckle against his lips as Harry changed his angle in at attempt to hit it on every other stroke. He wasn’t perfect – and Draco’s motions were partly to blame – but they would have time enough to work on it.

Eventually, the biting kisses left off and Harry lifted himself to pant against Draco’s forehead, pleading nonsensically and calling his name. One hand uncurled from Draco’s shoulder and slid down to encircle his engorged prick. Draco’s voice failed him then, and he dug his nails into Harry’s back.

“Fu– Oh gods– Mer– Harry!” he sobbed out, his cries escalating to screams as he approached climax. A few more strokes sent him over the edge. His head snapped back as his mouth stretched in a silent scream. His nails raked furrows over Harry’s shoulders. He arched his body up, tightening the legs clinging to his lover. Release splashed against his skin, spilling over Harry’s hand as it continued to stroke the twitching length.

Harry gave a hoarse cry as Draco’s walls spasmed around him. He yelled his sobs as he kept thrusting into the even tighter passage, trying to speed his hips along to tip him over the edge after his lover. As Draco began to relax, Harry went rigid and choked on one last sob, filling his lover with the warm liquid of his release. He continued to make small, jabbing thrusts until he had completely finished and felt himself begin to get oversensitive.

He carefully slipped out of his lover, balancing on shaking arms above him. Draco felt absolutely boneless, but summoned the strength to guide Harry down next to him. Harry clutched Draco close and Draco clung to him, their stuttering breath washing over each other for long minutes.

When their heartrates began to subside, Harry blinked sleepy eyes open to smile at his lover. Draco had peeked one eye half-open, but returned the smile full force.

“I love you,” Harry whispered into the space between them, rubbing his nose against Draco’s softly.

“I love you too, Harry,” Draco breathed out, eye drifting closed in utter contentment.

.o0O0o.

The next morning, Draco woke slowly. He was in a soft bed, wonderfully warm, and there was a pleasant weight against his back. A self-satisfied smile spread across his face, even before he opened his eyes. He tried to flex a few muscles, not wanting to stretch fully and dislodge the man curled up behind him, but a twinge of soreness stopped him.

“Morning, love,” came a sleepy mumble. Lips brushed gently against the back of his neck, and the arms around him tightened in a minute hug.

“You’re awake already?” he murmured back.

“Mm,” was the sleepy reply, muffled against his shoulder.

“What, no breakfast in bed? And here I thought you were into that romantic stuff,” he teased. He sighed contentedly, trying to wiggle back further into Harry’s embrace. The pain in his lower back impeded that endeavor a bit.

“No. Was afraid you’d do something silly like think I’d left,” he returned.

“It’s your flat,” Draco reasoned.

“I know,” Harry said with a grin against Draco’s throat. Draco pinched his arm, making him chuckle. “Admit it, you’re not exactly rational when it comes to doubt.”

Draco smiled. “I don’t doubt you. Haven’t – not for a long time.”

Harry snuggled up tighter to him in response.

They languished there for a bit longer in silence before Draco spoke again. “We probably should eat something.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. I’m going to want some energy, you know.”

“Really now.”

“Mm, yeah. As soon as I can function again I am returning the favor.”

Harry laughed, offering to make breakfast only if Draco made that a promise.


	27. Achievement

** Part Twenty-Seven: **

At twenty-nine, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Achievement.

Draco smiled into the fire, tilting his glass full of champagne just to hear the little fizzing noises of the agitated bubbles. Harry had wanted to stay over so that he could be the first one to wish his boyfriend a happy birthday at midnight, but he’d smiled and waved Draco away when Draco had explained about his little tradition. He understood about personal little rituals more than most people.

Life was amazing. The past year had brought him nothing but happiness.

Harry had filled his life with so much joy over the last four months that Draco wasn’t certain how he contained it – or if it was even possible to do so. He would often find himself smiling for no reason at all, just going about his daily business or filing papers. Their friends had all reacted positively to the announcement of their relationship, a mixture of happiness, relief, ‘FINALLY!’s, and ‘You weren’t together before?’s had populated the answering remarks. It hadn’t really been a question of _telling_ anyone thanks to the bruised lips and the bite marks lining Draco’s jaw and throat. Harry had been particularly smug about it, but Draco had soon gotten his revenge; a pity that Harry hadn’t really minded that revenge all that much.

Scorpius had blossomed on his football team. They had won some and lost some over the season, and had ended up coming in as second place within their small division. Draco had taken Scorpius out to celebrate after every game, irregardless of the outcome. He wanted his son to know that he was proud of him, win or lose. Thus, wins meant he got cake, losses meant he got ice cream. Of course, he wanted to make sure Scorpius understood that he _should_ still always try to do his best, so he had tacked on that the boy could also have a biscuit for every goal scored and a sweet for every goal he assisted with. Even on the games they had lost, the boy usually had at least one of each.

James, Al, and Lily had also insinuated themselves into his daily life. Draco took pride – and a bit of amusement – in his guesses about what Houses the various children in his life would be Sorted into, especially after he’d been right about Teddy. James was almost definitely a Gryffindor, but of the prankster variety; Draco had started trying to teach him the art of subtlety, and of having an alibi for every situation. He had come to staunchly support Neville’s idea about every child having a bit of all the Houses in them, so he was just doing his part. Al was a little snake if ever there was one, and while he and Scorpius had become the best of friends, he had started to hang on Draco’s every word. Draco supposed it was only right for the former Prince of Slytherin to pass on his title to his children. Lily was still a bit young to tell. Or, rather she was true to her nickname – a perplexing enigma. She was frighteningly smart, incredibly sweet, had everyone who met her wrapped around her little finger, and had a temper the size of the _sun_. She was Draco’s favorite little puzzle to think about, now.

His friends had all flourished. Ron had been promoted to a Lieutenant in the Aurors, and Hermione was still researching furiously. Rose, the little Ravenclaw-to-be, seemed to be a red-haired version of her mother, and Hugo…well, he had the mind of a Slytherin but the heart of a Hufflepuff. Greg and Millie were enjoying life in their little cottage, their daughter and son shaping up to be adorable little blocky Slytherins just as their parents had been. Blaise’s vineyards were flourishing, and while they didn’t see each other often the man would always send Draco his newest brands – accepting Draco’s evaluation of each. Neville and Pansy’s shop was doing brisk business, even more so now that they were tied to two of the top researchers in MAC, who often needed a lot of supplies. Their son Briar had been named as Draco’s godson, and while Draco _wanted_ to think him a Hufflepuff, he reminded himself about how he’d been wrong about Nevile. Pansy was also happily pregnant again, this time with twin girls.

Lucius had recently declared that Draco knew everything he needed to know about the family businesses – for now – and had released him fully to his own pursuits. The man was only in his fifties, so it would be a long time yet before the meddlesome patriarch would give up his positions. Draco had sighed in relief, not even wanting to think about what would happen when the man _did_ retire. Maybe Draco would have some grandchildren or great-grandchildren who were interested in that sort of thing by then, and he wouldn’t have to suffer through it.

Draco still sat on the Board for the WAR Foundation, but much of his activity had declined. Many of the pursuits they were involved in were scattered across the world, and with a young family to raise Draco wasn’t about to go traveling about. He still provided funds and advice – as well as the occasional idea – but that was about it. Most of the other positions he’d filled at the beginning now had permanent workers, and he wasn’t about to interfere with those people’s livelihoods. Anastasia was still the Head Chairwoman on the Board, but the witch looked much sprightlier these days. Gone were the weary lines around her eyes, only occasionally imitated by sleepless bags if she’d been up all night working on some sort of business. Draco was proud to call the determined woman his friend.

He was still a very active member of MAC, unable to stay away from his formulas and research for long. He was currently expanding his original theories on the connections between the Cruciatus Curse and anesthetic spells, theorizing that they _might_ be able to find a counterspell that would at the very least turn the Unspeakable into its much more harmless counterpart. If he was _really_ lucky, they might find a way to negate it altogether. He was in love with his work, but that short week he’d spent in France had given him a taste of something else.

A new Wizarding college had opened up in Britain, and Draco had been putting together a tentative lesson plan he hoped to submit for the first fall semester – a class on Magical Theory. He wanted to share his knowledge with the scholarly youth who might not have jumped into the subject on their own. MAC was a wonderful resource for the established scholar, but it was still difficult to get an apprenticeship. He had also opened up a yearly scholarship opportunity for any student who could provide a well-balanced research paper explaining the merits or interconnectivity of certain spells. There would be a grant for tuition, as well as one for the research into the proposed subject.

He knew how important it was to start children early on the path to thinking outside of the box, so eventually he wanted to petition to take his teaching a bit further. His goal was a post at Hogwarts, and for the class to be mandatory for at least one year. He wouldn’t want to start on such a demanding teaching schedule just yet anyway, but perhaps once Scorpius – or perhaps Lily now – had started school, he wouldn’t mind so much.

His Potions Mastery was a bit of a running joke nowadays. At the rate he was going, he might finally get it by the time he was seventy – completely by accident. He liked to brew and to experiment, but he could do that just fine without the title. He had no intention of dealing with finicky Masters who wanted him to brew all manner of silly things when he could spend his time on more important work.

In the long run of his twenty-nine years, he finally decided that life was _good_. There had been ups and downs along the way, and both good moments and bad. He had made mistakes and found miracles. He was finally at a place where he was content, but not so much that he was ready to stop vying for more.

He’d made friends. He’d gone against his beliefs. He’d sacrificed everything. He’d trusted. He’d lost people important to him. He’d made his own choices. He’d been regretful. He’d redeemed himself. He’d let go. He’d healed. He’d forgiven. He’d been forgiven. He’d become a father. He’d made peace with himself. He’d gotten his heart broken. He’d found his niche. He’d been prideful. He’d been humble. He’d grown up. He’d found a family. He’d found love.

He had a whole future ahead of him.

He smiled to himself joyously, then sipped the last of the champagne from the glass. He figured it was time to turn in – there was likely going to be a troublesome former Gryffindor in his bed waking him up before Scorpius had even cracked an eyelid.


	28. Love

** Part Twenty-Eight: **

At twenty-nine, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Love.

Draco lounged in his chair behind the desk, chattering happily with Eshe and Penha. Life was hectic these days, but Draco still made time for his book-friends. “Sometimes, it feels like you two are in a way my own personal diaries, the way you know everything about my life,” he joked. “Twenty-five of my twenty-nine years – all kept between your pages. Though I suppose you give better advice than any diary ever did,” he drawled.

“Namely those inhabited by the forces of evil, I presume?” Eshe joked back.

“Quite so!” Draco grinned. The two books’ fluttering laughter joined his.

“I still can’t believe it,” he said for probably the thousandth time – that day.

“I can,” Penha pitched in proudly. “You’ve put a lot of effort into this. You deserve it.”

Draco smiled at the book. He toyed with the edge of his formal robes, thinking about the night to come. The British Wizarding college had gotten back to him about his application, and the response had been astounding. They had most certainly wanted him as a professor, but they had also wondered if he would do them the honor of becoming the Head of the Magical Theory _Department_.

Apparently, Draco’s field had garnered such a following that it had been one of the subjects most clamored for during the founding of the college. It wasn’t only those who were interested in becoming Magical Theorists who had been intrigued, but those looking to gain Masteries in a great many other professions as well. To be able to trace how spells and potions and plants and creatures all fit together opened up whole new avenues in every subject. Cross-studies were cropping up all over, with people wanting mixtures that dealt with the interconnected parts of certain singular Masteries.

Several Theorists were being recruited for various teaching positions, and the college’s founders had followed Draco’s work diligently. They’d even gone so far to say that the other soon-to-be-professors – many of whom were Draco’s _colleagues_ – had expressed happiness at Draco’s appointment.

He’d happily let a few tears prick at his eyes before he’d shown first his mother and then Harry the letter. His mother, crazy woman that she was, had deemed that his new appointment deserved a celebration of epic proportions. Draco had groaned, looking at Harry to save him. Harry had just raised his hands in defeat – he wasn’t getting between Narcissa Malfoy and a _party_.

The clock above the mantle chimed seven, and Draco sighed. “I suppose I should go down to greet the circus,” he deadpanned.

Eshe scoffed. “Please, you live for the spotlight and you know it.”

Draco smirked at her, then gave in to an impulse and stuck his tongue out at the book. Ah, sometimes it was nice to be childish for a few moments.

“There was actually something specific I wanted to talk to you about before I went down there,” he let on.

“Oh? Do tell, child,” Penha goaded happily.

“Well…for one, I’m…well, I’m in love with Harry,” he said quietly, afraid one of their children might be listening at the door. _He_ wanted to be the one to reveal it to the man, not some third party.

Both booked beamed at him, their bindings sliding open widely to show the off-white columns of their pages. “That’s fantastic, little one.”

“So good of you to finally figure it out,” Penha joked wearily.

Draco rolled his eyes at the book. “There’s more.” He waited until he had their rapt attention, then pulled out a small black box. He clicked it open to reveal a beautiful, masculine ring within. “I’m going to ask him to marry me tonight, at the party,” Draco said shakily. “I wanted you two to be the first to know – especially you, Penha.” Draco beamed at the book. “I never would have gotten here without you, you know.” He felt his eyes start to prick with emotion and he blinked rapidly to keep them from spilling over.

“I am so happy for you, child. My friend,” Penha said softly, love suffusing every word.

“And I’ve never been happier,” Draco replied. “Thank you, Penha. Thank you for _everything_.”

Penha slowly waved a cover at him. “It was all you, child. I just gave you a little push.”

Draco laughed, then gathered the old brown book to his chest, hugging it tightly. After a moment, he drew Eshe in too. “I suppose you might have helped,” he teased her.

“Perhaps a bit,” she replied cheekily. “But you should probably get down there to your Harry now,” she chided.

“Yes, Mother Book,” he drawled, laughing when she thwapped him with a cover.

“Best of luck to you, child,” Penha murmured against Draco’s chest.

“Thank you. Hopefully I’m not dealing in luck this time, though,” he said, then carefully laid his friends on the desk. “I’ll be back later to tell you the outcome!” he promised, stepping quickly out of the study.

After a moment, Penha whispered, “Ten to one odds Harry asks him first.”

“As if Draco would let him,” Eshe replied. “Go to sleep now, Love,” she said fondly.

“Yes, dear,” he teased, and then he was still.


	29. Life

** Part Twenty-Nine: **

At twenty-nine, Draco Lucius Malfoy first learned about Life.

He rushed into the study, a bright smile on his face. “Eshe! Penha!” he called excitedly, making his way quickly to his desk. He was still in a dressing robe, despite the fact that it was just past noon.

“What is it, little one?” Eshe asked serenely, figuring she knew the answer.

“Look!” Draco pointed at the lovely ring on his finger, his smile stretching further. “It was amazing!” he exclaimed happily rocking on the balls of his feet.

“Do tell, then,” the book said indulgently.

“There was this huge hush that fell over the party when Harry and I were at the front of the room, and that’s when I got up my nerve to do it. Harry smiled at me and I took his hands and said, ‘Harry James Potter, I have fallen so very deeply in love with you.’ Because, well, I have – and he likes that romantic stuff.” He gave a short chuckle, waving his hands excitedly. “He looked confused for a moment, but then the most amazing thing happened. He said, ‘And I’ve fallen ever so in love with you too, Draco.’ I didn’t think it could go better, but then it did!” he babbled quickly.

He paced back and forth, motioning wildly with his hands. “We both started trying to talk at the same time, but then he put his finger to my lips and told me to hush. I mean, I was thinking that he must have some _nerve_ , but I raised an eyebrow and let him speak. He spoke about getting to know me and how important I’d become in his life – up there, in front of everyone!” he exclaimed. “He _hates_ crowds and spotlights, but he did that for _me_.” He beamed goofily for a moment, then shook it off and continued.

“He said he had something very important to ask me, and that’s about when I realized what he was about to do. So I Silenced him.” He paused in his pacing to roll his eyes. “He looked shocked, but I told him that there was no way in hell that _he_ was asking _me_ at _my_ party. Plus, he was doing it wrong – romantic proposals have the getting down on one knee thing,” he said matter-of-factly.

“So I told him that this was the proper way, and got down on one knee. ‘Harry James Potter, will you do me the honor of becoming my husband?’ I said, taking out the ring I’d shown you two and everything. He laughed and tried to answer, then pointed to his mouth. I’d, um, forgotten to remove the Silencing Charm,” he admitted with a touch of embarrassment.

“He then said, ‘What do _you_ think?’ and took out the ring he’d gotten me.” Draco grinned, then glanced at the slim band on his finger lovingly. “I said, ‘Say it anyway,’ – and he did! He said YES!” Draco laughed in exultation.

“Look at it! Isn’t it beautiful?” he asked, striding over to give his book-friends a view. He’d learned long ago that they somehow could see, even without eyes. One day he’d probably figure out the magic behind that. “I’d have come sooner, but I don’t think he would have taken kindly to me crawling out of bed saying I needed to tell some friends the good news,” he apologized.

When he really focused on the desk, Draco noticed that Eshe was the only one floating above it. Penha was still laying there, unmoving. Come to think of it, Eshe had been the only one who’d greeted him. “Penha?” Draco asked warily, his voice wavering from its ecstatic tone.

The book didn’t even give a flutter, as he would when Draco had upset him and he didn’t want to talk. “Penha?” he said a little more worriedly. He picked up the book, opening the cover and flipping through the pages.

The pages were all covered in a mass of scribbles, as if the same parchment had been used a million times over in a hundred different alphabets. They had always been blank before. The book was as limp as any other book, moving only as Draco flipped it. Draco began to panic.

“Draco,” Eshe began, her tone soothing.

“Penha!” he cried. “Penha, no, wake up! Please, Penha! No! No! What did I do? Did I do something wrong? Please talk to me!” He ran his hand over the old cover gently, then carefully shook the book as if to snap him out of it.

“You don’t need him anymore,” Eshe stated calmly.

“What?! Of course I do! Please, Penha! I’m going to end up getting everything wrong and I won’t know what to do! I need you! Please– please talk to me!” he cried, his eyes overflowing with tears.

“No, Draco, you don’t. Please listen to me,” Eshe pleaded when he made to interrupt her. He’d hugged the worn brown book to his chest tightly. “Do you know what he exists to do?” she asked evenly.

“To…to give advice. To guide people on the ways of love,” Draco stated shakily.

“Exactly. You don’t need his guidance anymore, Draco.”

Draco shuddered violently, slowly placing his unresponsive friend on the desk. “I’ve killed him,” he stated fearfully.

“Oh, nonsense. He’s fine. He’s just dormant right now, like we had been before you found us,” she stated reasonably.

Draco walked around the desk, slumping down and slipping to the floor before he could make it to the chair. Eshe floated down to hover before him. “You’re a part of him now, Draco. You’ve been a part of us both since you were four years old,” she said tenderly. “You have not killed him; you have given him life. And he has not abandoned you. He never will, and neither will I.

“He told you once that we would be here for you as long as you needed us. You don’t need him now. You _understand_. You have found love, and nothing stands in your way. He knew you would never purposefully sacrifice that just to get him to speak with you, so he felt comfortable going dormant,” she explained.

“He’s my best friend, Eshe,” he said through his tears.

“And he loves you just as much. I would know,” she added conspiratorially.

Draco barked a laugh, a smile twitching at the corners of his grimace. “Will he ever come back?” he asked weakly.

“If you need him, little one. If you need him, just find him, and he will be there.”

Draco nodded shakily. “It won’t be the same without him.”

“I think you underestimate yourself. Remember what he said last night? It was all you. He just gave you a bit of a reality check every now and again. You have other people around you who can do that, you know. Your mother, your friends, your fiancé – perhaps even your father on occasion,” she joked lightly.

Draco gave a short laugh. “Why are you still here then, if I’ve got everything all figured out?” he asked quietly.

“Oh, little one. You may have figured out love, but there is much more still for you to learn about life,” she said over-sweetly. Usually the tone made Draco want to stick his tongue out at the grey book. This time, though, he grabbed her out of the air and hugged her tightly.

“It’ll all be okay, then?” he asked quietly, feeling very much like the child Penha had always referred to him as.

“Of course it will. And when it’s not, we’ll be here,” she affirmed.

Draco smiled, wiping his eyes. “Okay.” He stayed like that for awhile, curled up around the grey book with his forehead pressed to her cool cover. He didn’t hear the door open, or the soft pad of footsteps.

“Hello, child,” Penha’s voice called cheerily. Draco’s head shot up, his eyes wide. He was about to scramble up and turn to the brown book laying on his desk, but Eshe made a soft ‘shh’ noise.

“Hello. Who’s there? Where are you?” a small voice politely replied from in front of the desk.

“I’m here on the desk,” was the amicable reply.

“You’re a book!” There was a slight shuffle, then a tiny, “Ow! Hey! That wasn’t nice!” the little voice scolded.

“My apologies, Scorpius. I mean you no harm. My name is Penha,” the book said cheerily.

“ _How do you know my name_?” the boy asked in wonder, his voice barely above a hiss.

“Oh, I know a lot of things about you,” the book replied enigmatically. “I can feel you now, child. That’s why I had to prick you – for the magic to work.”

“Oh. Papa likes knowing how magic works. I think it’s fun. How does your magic work?” Scorpius inquired curiously, and pages could be heard turning. “Why are you blank if you’re a book? How do you talk? Jamie has _The Monster Book of Monsters_ that growls, but it doesn’t talk.”

“One question at a time, child. Do you _ever_ remind me of someone,” the book said with a goodnatured laugh. “And I am blank because I am waiting for you to fill me up.”

“I like drawing things. Can I draw things instead? My letters are good, but it’s not as fun.”

“If you wish. I’d like to see your drawings!” the book said excitedly.

“I’d show you, but they’re in my room, not in Papa’s study,” Scorpius pouted.

“I don’t think your Papa would mind if you took me to see them,” Penha said mischievously.

“Okay.” There was the sound of falling paper. “What’s that?”

“Ah, would you mind leaving that on your Papa’s desk? It’s something I’ve been holding for him awhile, but I think he needs it back now.”

“Okay.” There were more sounds of the paper being picked up and left on the desk, then Scorpius was happily trotting out. “Do you know where Papa went, Penha? He wasn’t at breakfast.”

“I’m sure he’ll be down shortly,” the book assured. 

“Oh. Okay then. You can call me Score – everyone does except for Papa and Grand-mère and Grand-père.” The door closed quietly behind them.

Draco sighed from his crouched position. “Merlin. I should probably warn him about _other_ talking books, shouldn’t I?” Eshe chuckled. Draco took a deep breath, letting it out gustily. “He’ll take good care of Scorpius, won’t he?” he asked fondly.

“Just like he did for you. He’s bonded to you both now. He’ll hear your hearts until the day you die, and he’ll remember every bit of it forever afterward,” Eshe said softly.

Draco smiled, getting up off the floor. He patted himself down for invisible dust, straightening his dressing robe. Sighing resignedly, he set Eshe down gently on the desk. The corner of his eyes spied the slip of parchment, wondering what it was that Penha had left him. He quickly unfolded it and scanned the familiar writing.

It was the note his mother had written him in third year.

> _Life is hard, and it is filled with many complications. Some of the hardest things we have to do are some of the most complex things we will have to deal with. Sometimes you like the result, sometimes you don’t, and sometimes you can be surprised._
> 
> _Though there are a million complexities woven all around it, I will tell you the one most simplistic thing in all the world: I love you._
> 
> _I have loved you since you were only the most abstract idea in my mind, and I have loved you more every moment of every day since I knew you to truly exist. I know, no matter what happens, that I will continue to love you ever increasingly into and past the bounds of infinite time, and even still after the very concepts of you and I have ceased to exist._
> 
> _Stay strong. We will persevere, in some form or another._

Draco clapped a hand over his mouth, smiling as the tears came. He took a moment to let it all out, not holding the emotion back like he usually did.

“See, I told you he wasn’t _dead_. And that he loves you very much, too. You should really listen to me more often,” the remaining book drawled.

“Oh shush.” Draco glared affectionately at the book. “Sometimes, still, I really don’t like you, I hope you know,” he informed her matter-of-factly. He didn’t really mean it, but theirs was a friendship rooted in antagonizing one another.

“Most people think I’m a bitch until they escape me,” she shot back, making Draco laugh. A thought occurred to him then. “Why didn’t you call out to Scorpius too?”

“I figured you needed me more right then. I would like to meet him as well, someday.”

Draco nodded. “Thank you. Perhaps I’ll bring you along when I give him that lecture on talking books.” He paused. “You know, how _does_ your magic work exactly? No, I’m serious!” he said as Eshe just laughed. Draco rolled his eyes and grumbled, fairly certain the book wouldn’t tell him.

“Draco? Love?” he heard Harry calling outside it study, then the man’s head popped in and smiled. And then his face fell. “Were you crying?” he asked worriedly, quickly dashing across the room to Draco’s side.

Draco wiped at his face, clearing away the tear tracks. “I’m fine. Don’t worry,” he said with a smile. “It’s just that a very dear, very old friend of mine, ah, passed on today, and I was a bit upset for a little while.”

“Oh baby, I’m so sorry.” He squatted down beside Draco’s chair, putting a comforting hand on his leg.

“Don’t be. It’s okay. I think it was for the best,” he assured. “I’ll miss him terribly, but I think he’s gone to a very good place.”

“Who was it? Not Blaise?” Harry asked, stating the only one of Draco’s old friends he could think of that he wasn’t well-acquainted with.

“You didn’t know him. His name is Penha.” He hesitated for a moment, biting his lip. “Perhaps I’ll tell you about him one day,” he offered.

Harry smiled. “I hope you will. He seems like he was very important to you.” He reached up to wipe the last of the water from Draco’s face. “Anyone that you care about that much certainly has to be an amazing person, in my book.”

Draco burst into a fit of snickers, confusing his poor fiancé, but he wasn’t quite ready to explain just yet. Settling down, he smiled back down at Harry, running his fingers through the other man’s unruly hair. “He helped me find you. He helped me to believe in love. I’d say that makes him one of the most important people I’ve ever known.” He leaned down to press a kiss to Harry’s forehead, making the other man smile.

“Then I owe him everything,” he replied, voice full of love. He tilted his head up, pecking Draco’s lips where they’d lingered. “Will you be okay?”

“Yes, yes, I’m okay now,” Draco replied, waving his hand as if to brush off the worry. “It was just a bit of a shock. I know he’s still watching over me. And maybe I’ll see him again one day.”

“Of course,” Harry affirmed, looking happy.

Draco’s look suddenly turned calculating. “Now then, fiancé, I think you promised me chocolate chip pancakes,” he demanded imperially.

Harry laughed and nodded. “With extra chocolate chips,” he promised. He stood and extended his hands out to Draco, helping the other man up.

“You spoil me!” Draco teased.

“No, I’m just hoping that with enough chocolate and unending praise I can maybe factor out the blood-flavoured lollipops and keep you forever anyway,” he replied cheekily.

Draco laughed. “Not a chance, Potter.” Arm in arm, they waltzed out of the study. Eshe slowly floated up, watching the boys as they left.

_I won your bet_ , she sent to Penha smugly.

_Oh hush. Bothersome woman._

_I’ll take good care of him._

_I know you will, darling. And I’m certain I’ll be around here somewhere if he needs me_ , the other book drawled in amusement.

Eshe sighed in exasperation. _I love you, you soppy stack of parchment._

Penha laughed in response. _I love you too, my dear._

  
**Fin.**

 

_“You know you've read a good book when you turn the last page and feel a little as if you have lost a friend.” – Paul Sweeney_  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Extra Info/Easter Eggs:**  
>  ~ Eshe: means ‘life’; she is essentially the Book of Life; http://www.babynames.com/name/ESHE  
> ~ Penha: means ‘love’; he is essentially the Book of Love; http://www.babynames.com/name/PENHA  
> ~ In Part 6, the ‘dark, dank, dreary’ comment about Durmstrang was a reference to _My Little Pony: The Movie_ , which I watched obsessively as a child. X3  
> ~ Draco’s little elf owl was named Tetra, short for ‘tetraodondidae’ – the scientific name for a pufferfish – because when she was little she was just a puff of feathers. X3 I couldn’t find anywhere to add it in, though. *sad* Also, it’s somewhat a tribute to one of my favorite cosplay groups: http://parleproductions.spreadshirt.co.uk/luxy-s-pufferfish-girls-t-shirt-A11535053  
> ~ My beta Tyoko has apparently adopted Draco/cute-little-Hufflepuff-girl as her new OTP thanks to Part 6. XD  
> ~ The phrase “fardels borne” in Part 10 is a reference to Hamlet’s soliloquy. I am in love with that play, and slipping that in made me giggle. >.>  
> ~ Secrets of Rare Herb Gardening -> S.R.H.G. -> Slytherin, Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, Gryffindor in reverse alphabetical order. >D  
> ~ Snowdonia Hawkweed: http://www.vincelewis.net/hawkweed.html, possibly the rarest plant in the world.  
> ~ Tacca Chantrieri/Black Bat Flower: http://cdn.webecoist.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/11/black-bat-flower.jpg I saw it and thought of Severus. Don’t look at me like that!  
> ~ Monkshood: also known as…wolfsbane. *giggle*  
> ~ The bright green drink I had in mind for Draco was a Midori sour. Mmm, so tasty.  
> ~ The arbitrary dates I came up with for the children’s birthdays are as follows(in age order, since I’m pants at remembering what years it should be): James, 7th September; Rose, 11th November; Al, 18th December; Score, 21st August; Hugo, 5th September; Lily, 12th October; and OC Briar, 4th August. (Why yes, Hugo _was_ born two days before James’s birthday. *innocent whistle*)  
> ~ I sort of envisioned it was Seamus who tackled Harry at his birthday party. *snickersnort*  
> ~ Guess what the _real_ reason was that Harry didn’t want to get in the way of Narcissa’s party planning.  >;D  
> ~ “Most people think I’m a bitch until they escape me.” – Life’s a bitch and then you die. XD  
> ~ I see Draco likely needing Penha later on when he freaks out at having to deal with his PRECIOUS BABY CHILDREN starting to date. :|  
> ~ In the end, Life teaches us, and Love guides us into understanding the lessons. :) ♥


End file.
